


magic, lost and found

by circa1220bce



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: Community: norsekink, M/M, Norse Mythology - Freeform, Pseudo-Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 12:03:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 91,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circa1220bce/pseuds/circa1220bce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magic is for children and cruel, cowardly adults. This is what Thor and all Asgardians are taught and know is true.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <em>August 2014: Revised chapters 1-9 posted.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this is based off of two norsekink prompts. They can be found [here](http://norsekink.livejournal.com/8195.html?thread=17394947#t17394947) and [here](http://norsekink.livejournal.com/8195.html?thread=17569027#t17569027). :)
> 
>  
> 
> **Revised chapter posted August 2014.**
> 
> Huge thanks to Shira and Schaudwen for all of their excellent input during the revisions ♥ ♥ ♥

**Act I: Magic**

_Asgard_

“You might think to aim for the eyes or the belly, but the horns, my prince,” Bermar says. “That is key. A graze, even, and the beast will be whimpering. Why, once I ventured with–”

Thor, cheek resting in his hand and elbow on the table, lets his attention wander the length of the feasting hall. As if he does not know the trick to felling a bilgesnipe. This is why Thor prefers to sit among the older warriors. They do not care that Thor is a boy not even begun training and who yet counts his age by years, while they mark theirs by the fading of the stars in the sky. They pass him overflowing goblets of mead and thump his back like he is full-grown, and then they invite him hunting and _show_ him how to slay a foe. Only young fools like Bermar – too young to even have fought the Vanir, too young to have fought anything _but_ a bilgesnipe – think Thor cares to hear them drone or appreciates these half-remembered pointers Thor would prefer to know first-hand.

Thor meets Fandral’s gaze several tables away. Fandral sees Bermar and, grinning, mimes stabbing himself in the chest and then letting his head fall forward onto his plate. Thor can hear the plate’s rattle and Volstagg’s guffaw, as well as the surprised calls of those at the table.

“They travel in fours, you see. But Óspakr insisted they travel in threes.” Bermar chortles. “So I–”

Could Thor fake his own death? No, mother would be cross. Why can Thor not sit with Fandral and Volstagg, any how? The royal table is dull – always dignitaries and honored, dull young warriors. And his mother nudging him to make polite conversation.

“Truly? That’s astonishing,” Thor says without checking Bermar’s expression to see if the comment had any relation whatsoever to whatever sentence he’d interrupted.

Later, Thor will wonder that he’d been looking at his father at all.

There was no reason for it. Thor can have the king’s attention whenever he wishes it; the mighty feast, Thor’s been told, is when his father lends his attention to his people. This is why there are always new faces sitting at the royal table. His father knows the name of every man and woman of Asgard. Thor understands he’s supposed to be endeavoring to know the same, but is there not time enough for that later? He knows the names of all the Asgardians he cares to know.

But Fandral and Volstagg are no longer a distraction, tables away with their heads now ducked together in some fierce conversation that Thor longs to join. His mother is turned from him, laughing with Idunn, and no other nearby conversation interests him. All he has is Bermar droning in his ear, despite how Thor has been continually signaling for Bermar’s goblet to be refilled in the hope he might eventually pass out; he can hold his liquor, Thor will grudgingly grant him.

And so Thor sees when the raven-spy Huginn lands on Odin’s shoulder. Not an unusual sight; nor that Odin raises a hand to still the nearby talk that he might hear from the raven more clearly. Huginn would hardly interrupt dinner for an idle observation.

Thor sees the strange, sharp gesture his father makes, and the pen and paper that fold out from nothing in front of him.

Later Thor will remember all the details of the next moments, burned in his mind’s eye: his father writing some rapid note and handing the paper to Huginn, who takes it in one wiry claw and sweeps out of the hall, his flapping wings somehow audible over the feasting hall chatter. His father rising and the golden hall falling silent and whisper-still, no trace of boisterous cheer left in a single face. His father’s booming voice echoing: _The frost giants have unleashed war on Midgard._ Fandral and Volstagg looking to Thor, though every other Asgardian in the hall looks to Thor’s father. _They have broken the covenant, agreed upon at the long table._ Odin All-Father sharing one glance with Thor’s mother, and that one glance between them telling a history, and writing one. _They have by doing so declared war on Asgard! And Asgard will answer them!_

Right now, only one detail burns.

Seidr. That was an enchantment cast by his father’s hands.

Despite the silence in the wake of Odin’s announcement, there is a dull thudding in Thor’s ears. Odin knocks his tall, powerful staff Gungnir against the ground, and the thump spurns the gathered Asgardians into a study of motion. It may be centuries since the last war, but Asgard’s warriors are ever, ever ready for it. Over half the gathered men will not even need to detour to the armory – they wore full-plated armor and strapped great weapons to their backs and belts merely because the sun rose this morning.

Thor is distantly aware of Bermar clapping his back and saying, “I shall have to finish my tale once we’ve made corpses of the Jötun army.” He keeps seeing that pen and paper unfolding from nothing. Thor starts when a hand wraps around his arm. “ _Thor_ ,” his mother says, in a tone that suggests this is not the first time she’s called his name. “You are to follow me.”

There are questions he should be asking, steps in times of chaos that every Asgardian child is taught while still in swaddles; but his feet are clumsy, his mother’s grip on his arm guiding him and all that keeps him upright, and the questions Thor _wants_ to ask are heavy on his tongue. The Valkyries arrive silently, simply sliding into place around Thor and his mother, flanking them. Others fall alongside the passing warriors, all heading to posts or to form ranks along the Bifröst.

The Valkyries cannot and will not interfere. But they will watch and gather in their arms the souls of Asgard’s fallen warriors – there is no doubt that many will fall in a full war against Jötunheimr. Thor, and Thor alone, they will take arm to protect. There must be a king. And if Thor’s father is one of those fallen, Thor will need no one to tell him. The Valkyries will place a crown on his head the moment Odin’s breath stills. Not the coronation of which Thor dreams.

His father fall? Only this morning the thought would have been inconceivable. Thor would have been grinning in excitement, secretly hoping the battle lasts so long that he grows old enough to fight in it. But for the first time, his father is not all-powerful to him. He is flawed, and the flaw is just wide enough for the Jötnar to slip in one of the thin, sharp blades Thor has been taught they favor.

“You are to stay always with your guard, and preferably within your chambers, until I tell you otherwise. Do you understand? And you,” she says to the Valkyries, “are not to let him from your sight.”

Two Valkyries hold open the door to his chambers, and his mother leads him inside. She grasps both his shoulders. “Thor, do you understand me? Your father is already on the Bifröst to Midgard and I must attend to matters here. Your father and I must each of us know you are safe. We know not yet how deep Jötunheimr’s treachery cuts. Our attention cannot be divided with worry for you. Thor, do you understand?”

The glow of Seidr in his father’s hands. This is Thor’s first true opportunity to demonstrate his bravery, his worth. But that glow is brighter in Thor’s mind than the gleam of light off a well-sharpened blade, and never before has anything distracted Thor from that gleam. “How can father use Seidr?” he blurts.

His mother lets out a long, slow exhale, and her hands tighten briefly on his shoulders. “Thor–”

“Did you know? Can _you_ use–”

“Thor, my darling Thor, this is neither the time nor place for this discussion. I need you to promise me you will stay where it is safe.”

“So it is true?” he whispers.

Seidr is for children and cruel, cowardly adults.

This is what Thor and all children are taught and know is true: every child in every realm is born with an abundance of love – a lifetime’s worth – too much for their form to contain. Bottled up, it would split open your veins and flow like blood from your ears. It can manifest safely in what most call Seidr. Sparks of light, a flower blooming instantly from a seed, eyes and hair washing in every color like paint. A pen and paper folded out from nothing.

But love seeks ever to be shared. When you are drowned by your first true love, they are taught, that is when you learn to breathe and realize that until that moment you were under the tide. This weight of love becomes effortless once shared with another, and any other number of anothers after, and once properly used can never again be manifested as anything but the thump of your heart.

Thor sees them in the palace halls, at the feasting tables, in the practice rings, in the city markets. They are his fellow Asgardians, sometimes, or visitors from other realms, all usually at that young age on the cusp of adulthood. He sees how there is suddenly a difference to them, a _peace_ to them. How one day there is Seidr glowing at their fingertips, and the next day instead their fingers thread through someone else's and the glow is on their cheeks. There is no doubt, not to Thor, which force is more powerful.

Those that close their hearts, however, seeking instead the lure of Seidr, become cruel, selfish creatures, locked always inside their selves. And the longer their bodies bear the burden of unshared love, the more twisted and dark they become. Thor knows the dark tales; he has heard the terrible stories.

But his father. His father is not – his father cannot be–

“It is different for the king on Asgard’s throne,” his mother says softly, her face tight. She runs gentle fingers through Thor’s hair, and he leans into her comforting touch. “You will learn when you are ready, my darling. You are too young now to concern yourself with such matters.” She shakes her head, her gaze faraway. “Your father was too young. His own father fell and he ascended to the throne when he was not much older than yourself. I will not have you suffer the same. Do not doubt this, Thor: your father gave himself and still gives himself utterly to all of his people and to all the realms. He is a _good man_.” She sighs again. Says again, “It is different for kings. You will understand how when you are king, and you will know better than to judge what you do not understand.”

“But he does not love you truly,” Thor whispers.

“There is more than one kind of love. He loves me as he can, and I him,” she says firmly. But Thor is watching her eyes now, and though there is certainty within her there is not necessarily peace with that certainty.

“Now dwell no more on this. Not now. Entertain neither rash thoughts nor rash action. Your father and I need to know you are safe, else he or I be distracted with worry and you are also made a too-young king.” 

She waits, her hands warm and comforting on his crown, for Thor to say he understands. But what she means him to understand is unfathomable. What threat is cowardly, cruel Jötunheimr against a danger so much closer to home? He pictures again the pen and paper unfolding in his father's hands.

Thor glances at the Valkyries flanking the door.

They are gaunt, with slouched, loose posture, hips jutting with the confidence that they were created to face the worst and, when necessary, to become it. Glowing with an inner light said to originate in the halls of Valhalla itself, from certain angles their skin is translucent – barely seen for the muscle and bone beneath. Bloody strips of gauze wrap in haphazard tatters around their forms, fluttering against the crooked, well-used plates of their armor and catching on the crooked, sharp edges of their tall halberds. The bend of their enormous white wings arches over their heads, and their bottommost feathers trail against the ground collecting dirt. They are expressionless; but then, they always are.

“I understand, mother,” Thor says. He does not, not as she means, not how any of this can be, but he will have time to consider. Locked in his chambers and too young to fight for his people or those whom his people are sworn to protect.

His mother cups his face in her hands and kisses his forehead. “My son,” she murmurs, and then she is gone. The Valkyries close the door behind her, and then they stare straight ahead.

Until such time as anything seeks to threaten him, he may as well be alone.

* * *

_Jötunheimr_

Loki circles the figure he’s carefully constructed out of snow. He’s never seen a human before, but once his father-kings have made slaves of them he supposes they will be a common enough sight, assuming any are left alive. But from what Loki’s heard, this might be a close approximation – slight like the Asgardians, long-fingered like the Vanir, covered head-to-toe in cloth like the Dwarves.

He wonders if it is true, that all these creatures stand separate from the elements around them. Loki and his brethren and all creatures of Jötunheimr _are_ ice and rain and snow. To manipulate such elements is no different than to manipulate his fingers. These other peoples are weaker, Loki has been taught; they are incapable of this skill that is intrinsic to the creatures of Loki’s realm.

How peculiar that must be. How _confining_. Loki shudders, claustrophobic, at the thought of being confined to only the boundaries of one's own form, alone.

He nudges here and there at the snow figure, until he can think of no other way to match it more closely to the descriptions he's heard.

The finished form is, of course, taller than Loki, but most things are. He and his snow-human are on the roof of Laufey-king’s temple, overlooking empty fields for leagues in any direction. Loki prefers high places, where even the tallest of his brethren cannot reach were they to stand on tip-toe and stretch out their arms. And with Laufey-king and Fárbauti-king and the warriors off conquering Midgard – gone already for weeks – Jötunheimr is even more still than usual.

It is just Loki left behind in Laufey-king’s vast temple, with little company but the ice-dragons chained to their posts all along the paths leading to the temple gates. The dragons wait, frozen puffs of breath curling as fog around their spiky heads and drool freezing in shards from between their sharp, bared teeth. Their large, white bellies expand with breath, giving the illusion, covered in snow as they are, that the ground itself breathes.

Flicking his wrist, sharp knives of ice form from his fingers. Loki whispers, and the tips bleed to green. He’s been practicing poisons, using the spells he's found in forbidden books in a secret monastery. There is a beauty to poison that seems lacking in the ways other youths are taught to use their sorcery. His blood-brother Býleistr likes to catch snakes and snap his fingers and the snakes are split open from head to tail, instantly killed. How inelegant. How dull.

But Loki supposes it is not Býleistr's fault, nor the fault of all the others, that Loki is so brilliant and they so dim. All of them must, after all, do _something_.

This is what Loki and all children are taught and know is true: every child in every realm is born with greed beneath their skin – enough that a thousand thousand lifetimes could not satisfy it – too much for their form to contain. Bottled up, it would soften your strength and make dead your senses and cut you off from the rain and the ice and the snow. It can manifest safely in what most call sorcery. Splitting the skin of a snake without touching it. Creating wicked blades from nothing more than air and honing them to unnatural, devastating sharpness. Tormenting and teasing your brethren with tricks of light and sound. Poison, at your fingertips.

But greed seeks ever to be satisfied. When you know your first true possession, when you find the first creature that is _yours_ and steal him and chain him to you and cradle him to your chest, they are taught, that is when you learn to open yourself up to being possessed in turn, and understand that by holding yourself separate you made yourself weak. This itch beneath your skin becomes a thrilling challenge, a power, when you learn how it can be satisfied and used to make you powerful. And sorcery can never again be manifested as anything but the chains of ownership connecting all creatures.

Loki sees them, in the halls of Laufey-king's temple, in the cities by the oceans, in the caverns, at the tournaments – his fellow Jötnar, not quite at the height they will one day reach; how there is suddenly a straightness to their spines, a smug tilt to their chins, a _power_ to them. How one day there is dull, brutish sorcery haphazardly flung from their hands, and the next day there is instead their hands at the small of someone else's back, and a hand at theirs. 

Those that close themselves off, they are taught, believing they can possess without being themselves possessed, become isolated, insane creatures, locked away from their brethren and their realm. And the longer their bodies bear the burden of unrequited possession, the more twisted and pitiful they become. Loki knows the dark tales; he has heard the terrible stories.

And he does not believe them.

There is no doubt, not to Loki, that they are fools, deceiving themselves that what they gained is somehow more than what they lost.

_No one_ , absolutely _not a soul_ , will ever possess Loki Laufeyson. He is different from his brethren – he is _better_. They look down at him, now, mock his height, mock his parentage, mock his strangeness, but Loki knows – he is stronger than them. And he will show them. He will keep sorcery and sanity both and be more powerful for it.

Again Loki circles the snow-human, determination thrumming through his veins. Wondering how to fell one, where best to strike. His other blood-brother Helblindi, only slightly less dim than Býleistr, says they are crushed as easily as single snowflakes – just press them between your fingertips and they are gone. “Even _you_ could kill one,” he’d said.

Probably the neck. The belly. The eyes. The meeting between the legs. All of the usual places. Loki carves lines along the figure, leaving faint trails of glowing green. According to his cache of forbidden books, human ribs are supposedly useful in certain spells…

He drops the knives at an unexpected rush of sound. Whirling around, Loki dashes to the roof’s edge and sees the Jötnar force returned. So soon? They should not be back for weeks yet. Months, even. Should they have already subjugated the humans, it would take time to turn all the realm to winter and to set up settlements. But here the army is – or what remains of it. Their number is vastly diminished and the remaining ranks appear bruised and beaten. Loki spots Laufey-king pushing through the ranks, making for his temple. The Jötnar remain as they are, stances alert and ready. Loki searches and searches, but he does not see Fárbauti-king among them.

What could have happened? What has followed them back that they do not stand down?

Loki swiftly climbs down the temple’s face and is on the ground just as Laufey-king reaches the steps. Loki is prepared to trail after Laufey-king and coax answers from him or glean what he can from Laufey-king’s actions, but Laufey-king pauses next to him and considers him. From a distance, and not just because he towers eight feet over Loki’s head.

“Attempt to make yourself of use,” he says, and then he continues inside. He tosses off his ragged armor and discards his broken weaponry as he walks and soon returns with fresh wear and sharp blades. He is flanked by Helblindi and Býleistr, both half Loki’s age and twice his height. They had not been permitted to join the fight on Midgard, but now they too are dressed for battle. Laufey-king again passes Loki but this time without pause; he and Loki’s brothers head back onto the field just as a bright light splits open the sky.

Oh.

Loki has heard of the Bifröst but never witnessed it. It seems to take the entire sky. The ground shudders as the dragons lift their heads and haul their great forms to stand. Loki hasn’t time to ask of Midgard or to ask of Fárbauti-king or to even contemplate the unfathomable notion that those mortals had somehow repelled their army before the golden warriors begin descending from the sky. He hasn’t the time to wish he could fight alongside his kin or for his fingers to itch to create a spear perfect for plunging into soft Asgardian flesh before the two armies clash. He has time only to quickly and quietly scale one of the tall spires overlooking the battlefield before an enemy can spot him and add his blood to that already staining the ground.

For a time Loki just crouches on the spire ledge and observes.

He would whisper suggestions to the warriors, call out patterns that are apparent to him but would be unclear on the ground, but he does not waste the energy when he knows none of his kin desire his aid. But he notices, when the suns are peaked, that the reflection against the ice bothers the Asgardians’ eyes, while Loki and his kin barely register the light – their eyes too accustomed to filtering it. So Loki sends false suns into the sky to shine constant, unnaturally bright light to blind the Asgardians during the night, and rests and recovers his strength when the true suns rise.

As the days pass, the fighting only intensifies as more Jötun warriors arrive from far-off settlements to lend hand and the Bifröst keeps opening to ever more Asgardians. The ice-dragons grow indiscriminate in their rage at this disturbance and devour and spit out the bones of any – Jötnar or Asgardian – that dares come too near.

After about a week, when the battlefield is painted red and lined in corpses, a strange creature – sharp nose, black feathers, bizarre wiry feet – settles on the spire a few feet from where Loki crouches. It is like a bird, but also unlike any bird Loki has seen before. Loki forms a dagger in his hand, prepared to defend himself, but the creature just cocks its head and watches him. Regardless, Loki throws the dagger, but the creature just hops to the side and then back to its original post. Loki throws more icy daggers, each tipped with poison, and even as he enchants them to follow the creature, it somehow evades them with irritating ease. “Be gone, would you?” he growls, but if anything, the creature settles down more firmly.

Loki possesses more skills than just daggers and poisons – he shifts to the form of a water-cobra, hissing to frighten the bird away. It hops in the air, startled for a heartbeat, and then settles with tilted head. It inches closer, even while Loki bares his fangs and flicks out the point of his tongue. He darts forward, again and again, but the bird evades even these attacks. Humiliated to be so bested, Loki returns to his usual form, resolutely focusing on the battle below and not on his irritating companion.

For a long day Loki waits for its attack, but it never makes an aggressive move. Nor does it stop him when the suns set and he sends his own out to the sky, just turns its head to keep him ever in its sight. He tries intermittently to strike the creature, but it is difficult to pay constant attention to a creature that refuses to do anything to warrant it.

No daggers strike true, although he does once hit it with a simple snowball thrown in a pique. His victory is lessened when the creature gives him a look suggesting it allowed this out of pity. “I’ll make bracelets of your feet and adorn a helmet with your feathers,” he hisses at it, although he feels foolish threatening a creature that may not even understand him. When he is exhausted he slips to the side of the spire, shimmering out of sight while he leaves an illusion of himself in place. Another of the elegant tricks he prefers, scoffed at by his brutish brethren. But when he awakens, the creature is watching _him_ , ignoring the illusion utterly.

So Loki does not dare fall asleep again, even as this constant effort and vigilance makes heavier and heavier his limbs, and the creature watches, and the clash of weapons below is so constant that it ceases to register as sound.

* * *

_Asgard_

For almost a month Thor behaves. He stays mostly in his chambers, stubbornly keeping his back to the ever-present Valkyrie guard who confine him there. Food is brought to him, although never news beyond that the battle rages. He’s permitted brief walks within the palace – the one time he attempts to head to the Bifröst, his guards lower their spears to block his passage. Forged in the smiths below Niflheimr, the Valkyries have no purpose but to ensure that the royal line remains intact and that warrior souls are guided safely to their after life. Thor has little fondness for the Valkyries – but that is like professing little fondness for the sun. It does not require your fondness, and in any case it is best appreciated from a great distance.

The halls are empty and the city below Thor’s balcony quiet and still. Everything poised, waiting for word or for war to be brought here. This stillness will drive Thor to _madness_. He is not some fragile relic to be handled gently and hidden away. He should be _doing_. The only bright side is that his daily tutoring sessions have halted, as his tutor, Radulf, fights in the battle.

There is wisdom in keeping Thor safely tucked away, he knows this, even if his gnawing boredom and restlessness makes the knowledge a poor comfort. 

Thor eyes the Valkyries flanking the entrance to his rooms. They are poor company. Even were they inclined to answer the inquiries bubbling inside him, their voices are audible only to the dead and to the queen on Asgard's throne, the only living creature to whom they bow. Heimdall, gatekeeper on the Bifröst, would have answers, and if Thor asks, Heimdall may even provide them. One never quite knows with Heimdall. There is just the matter of reaching him, barred as Thor is by guards that can be neither cajoled nor bribed.

This means all proper means of escape are closed, and leaves as his only avenue Seidr. Not a subject which he prefers to dwell upon, though he has spent far too much of the almost-month turning the topic over in his mind. He’s never cared for the little tricks children are taught to use until their Seidr is properly channeled. Not like Fandral, who delights in the showiest displays, and likes particularly to make the older women blush with bright bouquets of light and shining jewelry; and it is no easy matter, making an Asgardian woman turn red. Nor like Volstagg, who mostly just coaxes platters of choice meats and sweet cakes closer to himself during meals, so that by the time most of the adults are too woozy with mead to notice or care, Volstagg is surrounded by mountains of food while the table ends to either side of him are piled with empty plates and unappetizing leftovers.

But every child must do _something_ or the Seidr will escape by its own means in unpleasant ways. Radulf likes to tell of little girls being burned alive from the inside out until they are ash, and of little boys whose skeletons turn to liquid within them and so collapse in messy, shapeless piles of organs and flesh. “Use it while you may,” he’d advise at the end of each gruesome tale, “And then when it is gone from you never look for it again.”

When the pressure is too much and Radulf’s tales start ringing in his ears, Thor will find someplace hidden – some covered garden corner, a tree at the edge of Idunn’s forest, an empty balcony shielded by shadows – and with no more effort than it takes to blink, call the rain and thunder. They are not supposed to interfere with nature nor seek such primal outlets, but no other will do. He has tried Fandral’s way and Volstagg’s and many others, and they all leave a sour feeling of unease in Thor’s stomach. It is wrong, and so easily corrupted.

But the rain against his cheeks, the crack of thunder – that is pure and incorruptible. Sometimes, though Thor would swear it not true, he does not do this because the Seidr within him is tightening his chest, but simply because he thinks the sky is lovelier when grey.

Out on the balcony, the open door partially concealing him from the Valkyries, he calls the thunder now. He could just pen a message and send it flying out to its recipients. He _has_ done that once or twice, which is partly why that spell pierced him so cleanly when he saw his father’s hands perform it. This way is less subtle, but Thor is hardly a thing of subtlety.

Once the rain is falling steadily, he taps one finger three times on the balcony, and thunder claps in the sky three times in perfect synchronization to each tap. The gesture he does not think is necessary, but it makes the action feel less like a trick.

Then he waits.

He is not left waiting long. Soon enough a whistle sounds above him, and from a window two floors above, Fandral whispers down, “We thought you would never call!” He rolls out a rope ladder and scales quickly down, Volstagg not a moment behind him. Heimdall will see, of course, even focused on the war as the guardian will be, but it is Heimdall Thor means to speak with. Thor would not be able to hide his approach in any matter.

Ensuring the balcony doors shield them, Thor gestures to behind the door to indicate his guard and then places a finger over his lips, even though the rain and thunder should mask their soft voices. Fandral and Volstagg nod in understanding.

Thor whispers, “What news?”

“They are fought back from Midgard,” Fandral whispers back. “But we followed them to Jötunheimr. They are beaten back but not yet beaten. That is all I know.”

“What plan, my prince?” Volstagg asks.

“The Bifröst,” Thor says. “I must reach it.”

Volstagg looks stricken. “You mean us go to Jötunheimr?”

“Is that where we are headed?” Fandral asks, with considerably more excitement.

“I do not yet know,” Thor says. “For now I wish only for more exact news. Once I have that, I shall see.” Volstagg will go, if Thor asks it. And for that, Thor clasps his arm and says, “But someone need stay here, unless the Valkyries too quickly realize they guard an empty room. If you do not object, that is.”

“For you, anything,” Volstagg says, voice weak with relief.

While Fandral and Volstagg work to transfigure Volstagg’s appearance to one that will hopefully pass at a distance as Thor, Thor casually heads back into his rooms and rummages through his wardrobe. He emerges with a thick coat, which he shows to the Valkyries. “It turned cool,” he says. The Valkyries do not even glance at him. When Thor rejoins his friends, he has to bite back a laugh.

“I suppose that will do,” Fandral says, somewhat doubtfully.

“I am not meant to be blond?” Volstagg guesses.

“I can say with confidence that that should be your least worry,” Fandral says. Thor slips the large coat over Volstagg’s shoulders and positions him so that only his covered arm should be visible to the Valkyries inside. “How long will you need, do you think?” Volstagg asks.

“It should not take too long to reach Heimdall, even if we take a long route to avoid being seen,” Fandral says. “An hour, at most.”

“We’ll stop first at a weapons vault. Just in case,” Thor says.

“Just in case,” Fandral agrees, teeth bright in his grin.

“So try to dally out here for as long as you are able. I have done this often enough these past weeks the Valkyries should not mind. When the rain stops you can abandon this post.”

“Good luck,” Volstagg whispers, as Fandral lets the rope fall over the ledge, transfiguring it to reach the ground, and Thor and Fandral climb swiftly down.

“I loathe being wet,” Fandral says despairingly, his hair already plastered to his head. Thor keeps to himself how he glories in it.

When they arrive at the nearest weapons vault, there is someone already inside – a small, golden-haired girl, carefully lining her belt and sleeves with daggers. She gasps when she sees them in the entranceway, gaping at her, and tries to hide the dagger in her hands behind her back. As if she is not lined with a dozen others, all in plain sight.

For a moment, they stare at one another.

Then, chin lifted and a bewildering amount of defiance glinting in her eyes – what did Thor do to _her_? He does not even _know_ her! – she brings the dagger back into sight and tucks it alongside the others in her belt.

“Are you a Valkyrie?” Fandral asks. “I did not know they could be so short. Or so…pretty.”

The girl frowns. “I am not a Valkyrie.”

“I do not think Valkyries steal weapons,” Thor says, studying the strange girl. “They arrive already armed. Who are you?”

“I am Sif,” she says. Her fingers tap at the daggers.

“And you were bid to fetch weapons?” Thor asks.

Sif scowls, and Fandral actually takes a step backwards before catching himself. “I am here of my own will,” she says.

“To what purpose?” Thor asks.

“If the ice giants come I will not stand idly by. I will defend myself, and my family.”

Thor approaches her and takes one of the knives. “With these?”

“I cannot–” A faint blush spreads over her cheeks. “I cannot – these swords were too heavy. I have good aim, though.”

“Can you use a sword?”

“Can _you_?” she snaps. “What permission do _you_ have to be here?”

“This is my home. I need no permission,” Thor says, seeing Sif’s eyes widen in realization of just whom she speaks to. Thor sees no reason to mention that he does, in fact, currently require permission, nor his current complete lack of it.

“Your highness,” she says, and then trails off.

“I think our purposes are the same,” Thor decides, handing her back the knife, which she tucks into her built. “Take your weapons. I will not stop you.”

“Thank you, my prince,” she says softly. “Do you – I have only ever tossed darts. Do you know the proper grip to use with daggers?”

“I can show you,” Fandral blurts. Thor had almost forgotten he was there, he was so unusually quiet.

“Since when can you throw daggers?” Thor asks.

“I cannot,” Fandral says, but he’s focused on Sif. “But I will. I’ll be taught when I am of age. Everything from swords to halberds. And then I will show you, if you like, my lady.”

“I am not your lady,” Sif replies, although her eyes brighten at Fandral’s proposition. “I am my own.”

“The offer stands, _your_ lady,” Fandral says. He gives a flourishing bow with the title, and with equal flourish conjures in one outstretched hand one of his bouquets of light.

Sif takes the bouquet and holds it gingerly. “If we are not slaughtered by the Jötnar before we reach of age, perhaps I will accept,” Sif says, almost shyly now. She traces with careful fingers the insubstantial, flickering edges of the light-flowers, and then she glances to Thor and, hesitance abruptly clearing, firmly hands the bouquet back to Fandral. “But for now I should return before my mother notices my absence.”

“We should arm ourselves and be away as well,” Fandral says, regarding the bouquet with some bafflement, as if he has never had one returned.

Thor looks between them – at the girl with the daggers in her belt, at the boy with the flowers in his hand. Thor shakes his head and says, “No.”

“Thor?” Fandral asks.

“Go with Lady Sif. If the worst comes, lend hand as you can. But it will not. My father will triumph over the frost giants.”

“If you are sure,” Fandral says, though he is already drifting in Sif’s direction. Thor waves them away, and Fandral snags several daggers of his own before he and Sif dash off.

Thor does not arm himself. He heads to the Bifröst, thinking about love and what it means to never know it.

And when he stops beside Heimdall, the guardian is utterly unsurprised to see him.

They are going to prevail, Thor had realized the moment Fandral held out that bouquet to the odd Lady Sif. It does not matter if Odin All-Father is burdened with Seidr. He commands a thousand thousand warriors burning with pure love in their hearts, and the Jötnar will be helpless but to melt in the face of that heat.

“How goes it?” Thor asks, cheer restored. During some far-off tomorrow he will confront the knowledge of his father’s Seidr. For now, Thor would rather look forward to the days of celebration sure to follow their victory.

“The Valkyries can hear a soul sever from a body, young prince. Do you believe a touch of rain would stymie them?”

Thor stills and slowly, reluctantly, looks over his shoulder. His Valkyrie guards stand a few paces behind him, staring as ever ahead and past him.

“Oh,” Thor says, weakly. “But why–”

“There is nothing a Valkyrie likes more than a warrior-king. When they one far-off day take your soul to Valhalla, every last one will vie for the honor.”

“So it goes well, then, that that day is far off?” Thor says, grinning.

“It does,” Heimdall agrees.

“I want to know the moment my father slays their king.”

“What lends you such confidence, young prince?”

“It is not a matter of confidence. It is knowledge. The ice giants are monsters, and monsters will always lose to Asgard.”

For a long afternoon, Thor waits patiently next to Heimdall. Though they both stare ahead, Thor’s sees only the black of space and the far-off glitter of stars, while Heimdall’s golden sight extends to the precise details of each corner of the Universe. What must it be like, Thor wonders, to see so much, and know you will only see it from a distance?

Heimdall says, “Laufey-king is fallen, young prince. Jötunheimr in disgraced ruin.”

“How was he felled?”

“With words.”

Thor considers this. Then he says, “I would’ve used a hammer.”

Heimdall says, “One day, young prince, you will understand why this fate was crueler.”

* * *

_Jötunheimr_

The irritating bird had left this morning – finally! – but it returns and lands beside Loki just as a messenger sprints from Laufey-king’s temple, shouting words Loki is too far away to hear. But Loki knows what he must be shouting, knows they are lost, when Helblindi and Býleistr lower their arms, allowing the spiked weapons they wield to dissolve.

Within moments the rest of the Jötnar have followed suit – the ones slow to do so are unarmed with force. Loki would have thought they’d fight until the last warrior was slain, but Laufey-king is known to favor efficiency, and they’d been losing ground for a while now. Loki forces himself not to turn away – he will witness the executions.

The strange bird makes a strange cawing noise. Loki doesn’t bother to do more than absently say, “Be quiet, would you?” Loki is not so ready to be discovered and meet his own death. Not yet.

But no execution comes immediately to his brethren. The Asgardians crowd closer, weapons still drawn and ready, but they do not attack. For what do they wait? Will the Asgard king do the honors himself? Where is he, for that matter? The last Loki saw, he and Laufey-king’s fight had taken them into the temple.

Carefully sliding down the spire to the temple’s roof, Loki eases himself inside and onto the rafters and ventures slowly closer. His bare feet are steady and soundless on the slick iced surface, and he bows his head lest the tips of his horns scratch the ceiling, giving away his presence.

Laufey-king is sprawled on the ground, a deep gash revealing bone in one leg and blood smeared down the sides of his face. The All-Father towers over him, but his weapons are sheathed. He holds the Casket of Ancient Winters in his hands. Loki barely stifles his gasp. That old man _dares_?

“You shall keep to your realm, and all your people, as well,” the All-Father is saying, as Loki creeps closer until he is almost standing above the two kings. “And I will take from you your power, that Jötunheimr is crippled and unable to do more damage than its treachery has already regretfully wrought.” Laufey-king says nothing, just breathes steadily and listens.

Loki carefully forms an ice dagger in his hands. The creature, which had trailed him along the rafters, tilts its head. Soundlessly, Loki eases just a touch closer, so that he has clear aim of the All-Father’s back. Strange, agile maybe-birds aside, Loki is an excellent shot.

He has mostly stopped listening to the All-Father lay the terms of Jötunheimr’s surrender, but he hears and freezes when the All-Father says, “And also the shapeshifter. I was unaware any of your people possessed such a rare skill.”

“Shapeshifter?” Laufey-king repeats, impassive.

“Quite. The one poised above us, aiming a blade at my heart.” Startled, Loki nearly loses his balance – he catches himself in time, flat against the rafter with his arms wrapped around it. His dropped dagger shatters on the floor a pace away from the All-Father’s boots.

“Thank you, Muninn,” the All-Father says, and taps his shoulder. The creature makes its strange sound and glides easily down to land where Odin tapped. Loki gapes. That – that – Loki is going to _kill_ – he is going to – to–

“Loki,” Laufey-king says. Mind whirling in a sense of absurd betrayal, Loki has no choice but to make his way to one of the supporting beams and slither down, coming to stand where Laufey-king lays. “My firstborn,” Laufey-king says, and it is a good thing Loki is on the ground or else he would have fallen at that. Laufey-king _never_ acknowledges – “A shapeshifter, as you already know.” Loki struggles to keep his face expressionless.

“Well, Loki Laufeyson,” Odin says, and Loki flinches. He cannot help it. It is one thing to attribute the name to himself in his mind. Another to hear it spoken to casually. “I shall take you also as spoils.”

“Very well,” Laufey-king says. Of course it is that easy for him. Since when has he cared of Loki’s fate? “Are there any more terms?”

“Keep to your realm and to those I have dictated, and I shall impose no others,” the All-Father says.

“I would beg, then, a private moment with my son before you and yours away. Perhaps while you see to your men?”

“Why should I allow you this opportunity to scheme? I do not for a moment think you speak out of sentiment. And were Asgard crumbled at Jötunheimr’s feet, I’d be afforded no such luxury.”

“I lay in ruin before you, All-Father. Do you think I will not dream every night of your ruin in return? But if you meant to slay me you would have, and if you mean to deny me such simple dignities as a private farewell to my firstborn, you may as well have.”

The All-Father sighs and rubs a hand over his empty, bloody eye-socket. Loki had seen Laufey-king pop out the eye. He’d meant to try to find it later. “A moment only.” He leaves, taking his traitor-bird – Muninn – with him.

Loki stares at Laufey-king.

“So, my bastard get,” Laufey-king muses. “There is use for you after all.”

“You send me to be killed in Asgard?”

“They will not kill you. You are no use to them dead.”

“How can you know?”

“Because the All-Father, though this admission pains me, is wise enough to not so carelessly disregard that which might one day have purpose. Odin and I have a long history, child. And mark me, it is better to have enemies with such – there is kinship in it, perverted though it may be. He will not kill you.” Loki says nothing. What could he say? “It pleased you, to be named my son. How you’ve begged me for the honor, to be the true heir to Jötunheimr's throne. You are being sent to my enemy’s belly. Perhaps you will find a means to persuade me to finally concede.”

While Loki’s heart is still thumping in his ears, the All-Father returns. “That is your time.”

“It was sufficient. You are most gracious, All-Father.”

“And you a poor liar and a sore loser,” the All-Father says. He regards Loki. “You can take any form?”

Loki glances at Laufey-king, but Laufey-king pays him no more attention. Loki nods. The All-Father taps his shoulder opposite Muninn. And waits.

Loki could run. He should. Turn to something small and scurry away. Or at least to something sharp and take the All-Father’s other eye. But the All-Father just waits. Serenely, for all that he is slicked with Jötun blood. Behind them, Laufey-king has struggled to his feet and makes for the temple entranceway. Loki is already gone to him.

A deep breath, and Loki forces his body to copy the maybe-bird’s shape. Then he takes flight and lands on the All-Father’s shoulder. The All-Father taps one of Loki’s wiry feet and a slim chain curls out, one end wrapping around his leg and the other connected to the All-Father’s armor. If there was ever a chance for escape, Loki missed it.

Loki’s mind is oddly blank, uncomprehending, as the All-Father gathers his men and follows them along the Bifröst to their home. As the All-Father greets a somber, golden-eyed man and fondly admonishes a grinning, golden-haired boy. As they walk down the bridge surrounded by more color than Loki knew the Universe contained. He remains perched on – chained to – the All-Father’s shoulder as the All-Father greets what must be the queen, and during the victory ride through the city, and during the celebratory feast.

Hours later, the All-Father excuses himself from other company and wanders deeper into the Asgard palace and down several staircases, arriving at some guarded vault. Inside the walls are lined with exotic weapons – a gleaming gauntlet, a shining hammer, a pulsing globe – and even numb as Loki’s mind is, he can feel the power of these weapons pressing in on him. Loki even sees the Casket on a pedestal ahead. The All-Father stops in front of a large mirror, tall as the ceiling and as wide as the All-Father is tall.

The All-Father removes the chain and says, “To your true form.”

Loki glides down from the All-Father’s shoulder and morphs upward into his Jötun form.

“I have considered all this day as to what I mean to do with you. I can no more have a Jötun wandering Asgard’s halls than I can leave you to your own devices elsewhere and trust you will behave and return when summoned. I have come to an uneasy solution.” He runs a hand along the mirror’s edge. The frame glows briefly, and then instead of their reflection Loki is looking at a room. A small one – no door, no windows, just basic furnishings.

No. Not a room.

A cage.

Loki steps back, but the All-Father lays a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You will stay here until such time as I find a use for you.”

Loki finds his tongue. “If there is no use?”

“Then this is where you shall remain.”

“If I do not cooperate? I have no reason to.” Loki’s rooms on Jötunheimr were always more window than wall. He can already taste how stifling the air inside this room will be. His skin already itches from being so utterly separated from the rain and ice and snow of Jötunheimr. He is not part of the metals of these walls nor the dirt beneath these floors and they are not part of him.

“If I cannot expect your cooperation, there is no reason to keep you. But I suspect you are too dangerous to return. And if you had no self-preservation, I wager you would’ve been on the battlefield with your kin rather than skulking in the rafters. If this does not sway you, know that your presence here is one of the conditions of Jötunheimr’s surrender. Break it, and I may call our truce into question.” The All-Father studies Loki. “Do you love your people?”

Love. Loki's heard that word before. Usually sneered, when someone talks of Jötunheimr's enemies. “They are mine, if that’s what you mean,” Loki says.

The All-Father nods slowly. “Laufey once answered me the same. Step inside.”

Is it a dignity or a cruelty to walk into his cage of his own volition? _Escape_ , his mind screams, but to where? He steps inside, as if there is no boundary between this room and the vault. But once inside, when he places his hand against the air between the mirror’s edges, it is like touching a solid surface.

“Know this, child. I love all peoples – even the Jötnar. I am All-Father to all realms, and I act to ensure the prosperity and peace of all realms. Though it brings me no joy to make such cruel use of no more than a child, I act always for the greater interest. You did not ask to be Laufey’s son, nor a creature with the potential for great power, but I am no fool to act as if these are not both true.”

Loki studies the room. “It is too warm,” he says.

“Then I suggest, child, that you switch to a form that finds this temperature less unpleasant.”

The All-Father brushes a hand against the mirror frame, and the vault shimmers away, leaving Loki staring at his own reflection. He does not change from Jötun form.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Revised chapter posted August 2014.**

_Within the Mirror_

No sooner is Loki left alone than whatever has kept him moving for the war and its aftermath drains away with dizzying abruptness. Mind airy and limbs heavy, Loki glances around the cage: blank, too-close walls, a basin in one corner, a bed. He places a hand on the bed – too soft. He barely notices when his knees give and he's stumbled to the floor.

Sleep.

Sleep would be lovely.

He sinks further to the floor and reaches a hand up to feel around until he finds the blanket, which he drags from the bed to cover his curled, exhausted form so that nothing but the tips of his horns peek through. It is too hot, too scratchy, and the floor is too ungiving, but at the moment he could have fallen asleep on an open fire.

Nothing wakes him for seven days. Or what his body tells him has been a week – who knows how long an Asgardian week lasts, or if the flow of time within his cage reflects that outside of it?

Shrugging off the blanket, Loki stands and stretches and wipes the sweat from his brow. He turns a slow circle, studying his surroundings with more care now that he is somewhat refreshed. The walls are as close as he'd feared and the ceiling so low Loki can reach up his hand and press his palm against it. The bed takes up almost the entire floor. Dim lighting throughout, although its source is not apparent. No sounds but his own breathing, no smell but his own sweat.

Fine.

It is – fine.

There are worse places he could be tucked away until the All-Father finds a use for him. And Loki will have – he will have – Loki forces himself to take a deep, slow breath – he will have the rest of his eternity to think about what those places could possibly be. More importantly, he will have that same eternity to think of just how he will strike Asgard in her belly just as Asgard struck Jötunheimr.

Loki _does_ have a purpose. And it will not be to the All-Father's liking.

He will be clever. That is what he will be. He will not fall into blind panic. Another forced deep breath. He will keep careful watch of what times and how often he is checked upon and of anything else he can surmise. Find a way to use that knowledge to his advantage. And no hurry. Give his home enough time to recover so that when Loki's actions break the truce, they will be ready to fight anew.

Yes.

Good.

One matter at a time. He goes to the basin in the corner and relieves himself. Then he goes to sit on the bed and wait, rubbing his stomach, which is tight with hunger. Jötnar may require minimal sustenance to function, but minimal does not mean _nothing_. Did they realize he was sleeping? Or is he to be fed this infrequently?

Or not at all.

No. No, Loki is no use to the All-Father dead. That is what Laufey-king had said, and whatever the All-Father may believe, Laufey-king is no liar.

The All-Father may allow Loki to reach the brink of death by starvation, but he will not let Loki fall off it. Do the Asgardians even know what sort of food Loki's kind eat? Loki has heard the Asgardians eat roots and leaves and drink crushed fruits. Even if they are pleasant to eat – which Loki doubts – that will not sustain him. What if–

No. Loki is no use to the All-Father dead.

He may not be given appetizing food, but it will be enough to nourish him.

Probably.

Surely someone should have checked on him by now? Perhaps there is someone on the mirror's other side. “Hail,” Loki calls, and then again, louder. No response. Loki presses an ear against the mirror. He cannot sense anything beyond these walls; the cage may as well be adrift in limbo. But the walls pulse with some antiquated, unfamiliar power. They feel – _malleable_ , and yet beyond Loki's ability to mold.

Fine. Until such time as someone arrives, he will occupy himself recalling all he can from his time spent perched on the All-Father's shoulder. He closes his eyes and traces the path they'd walked, how far the Bifröst stretched, a vague map of the palace, the faces of those they'd passed. The details are distorted from his unaccustomed perspective – large things appeared larger, tall things shorter, and whatever creature Muninn is must have excellent sight, because what Loki knows must have been very far away he saw with complete clarity, making distant sights seem closer. A full day passes as Loki replays these details over and over in his mind, attempting to normalize the perspective.

Loki is _starving_.

Is there a device somewhere, perhaps, that calls for food? Loki circles the cage, feeling the walls for something to press or speak into, when he finds the two doors. Small squares, a short distance apart, their outlines and the slim handles barely distinguishable from the walls. Loki turns one of the handles, half-expecting it to be locked. It gives easily, and the inside is a small, cubed space, in the middle of which is a plate piled with half-frozen, spotted charr.

Without thinking Loki grabs a fish from the plate and greedily bites into it, moaning at the wonderful, _familiar_ taste. He rips at the flesh and guts, licking up the blood from his lips and chin and fingers, and when the charr is nothing but a skeleton he swallows that whole, the delicate bones tickling his throat. He's eaten half of the fish on the plate before the recklessness of his actions occurs to him. These fish could be poisoned. Or tampered with in any number of awful ways. His hand hesitates over the plate.

Surely he would've noticed any ill effects by now? And they're so _familiar_ , and after thinking he'd never eat familiar food again…

He is no use to the All-Father dead.

Taking the plate and shutting the door, Loki settles back on the floor and eats the rest more slowly. He'll ration the next batch, whenever that comes, he reasons. This plate he'll enjoy. When he's done and the plate is tossed aside, Loki licks his fingers clean, sighing at the lovely coolness settling in his belly. Not nearly enough to negate the room's heat, but a mild balm.

Going to the second door, he opens it and finds a similar small, cubed space, but instead of a plate of fish he finds a tall goblet filled to the brim with water. He takes the goblet and studies it. He needs to be more careful this time. Except now that his belly is full he cannot help noticing how parched his throat is. Surely there is no point in providing him harmless food but poisoned water? And he's _thirsty_. He'll be more careful about other things. He lifts the goblet and drinks until it's empty.

Loki had not heard anyone enter and drop off the food and water. Granted, despite their clunky metal and clunkier weapons, Loki knows the Asgardians can move about as swiftly and gracefully as a whisper. Even so, as deep as Loki's sleep was, and as softly as the Asgardian may have tread, Loki would not have reached even his young age if he could sleep and remain unaware of living creatures moving nearby.

Unless…Loki returns to the first door and opens it. Another plate of charr. Loki stares a moment, and then he removes the plate, closes the door, and reopens it. Another plate. Oh. He wonders…Loki retrieves the empty plate and places it behind the door. When he reopens the door, the empty plate is gone and in its place another full one. Experiments with the second door reveal the same. A seemingly never-ending supply of fish and water. That probably means…he goes to the basin and glances in. Even though he can clearly see the bottom and there is no obvious drain, it's empty.

No one is coming. Not until he has a use.

Though he's still far too warm, Loki slinks back to the floor and drags the thick blanket once more over his head so that even his horns are covered.

* * *

_Outside the Mirror_

The Valkyries deign to stay for the celebrations following the victory over the Jötnar. They keep mostly to the edges of the cheerful, singing, boisterous Asgardians, but they raise a glass from which they do not drink at each toast, and they bow their heads at each call of a fallen warrior's name.

Thor takes bare notice of them, much too occupied running from warrior to warrior and breathlessly urging each to tell their battle tales – Volstagg and Fandral and even the Lady Sif right on his heels. When any moves to reenact their battle Thor leaps up to volunteer, laughing and cheering as the warriors mime parries and thrusts. Thor devours every detail – descriptions of the vast, frozen plains of Jötunheimr and the exotic landscapes of Midgard, of formations and stratagems and tactics improvised in the heat of battle, the feel of wading through gore and blood and foreign soil underfoot. Thor presses for more until he could close his eyes and picture it himself, can _taste_ it.

There is no part of Asgard, no person within it, that Thor does not love with a ferocity that burns. But this – this he loves most of all. This is what Asgard _is_. Strength against adversity, a shield to protect those whom cannot protect themselves, a beacon of _good_ in a Universe that he's been warned can too often be cold and unforgiving.

Thor is an All-Father's son, and it is different for the king on Asgard's throne, he has been told since he was in swaddles. One day he will learn how. One day he will hold court as his father holds court and will have to make the decisions his father makes, and yet Thor wishes it could be just this – a clear foe, a ready army, a battlefield, and celebrations to follow. But it is not all battlefields – it is negotiations and politics and diplomacy and all sorts of things for which Thor fears he hasn't the patience or mind.

But this is his _home_ , and he will do anything to be worthy of ruling it.

Another toast, a cheer that shudders the palace halls with its volume, and Thor's face aches from grinning so widely.

When the Valkyries begin slipping away with no more fanfare than with which they'd arrived, a servant informs Thor his mother requests he join her in her study. Though Thor has not nearly had his fill of battle tales yet, the celebration will almost certainly last for weeks yet, so he waves away his companions and follows the servant to where his mother waits.

Once inside, the servant closing the doors once Thor is through, one look at his mother's expression as she regards the Valkyries before her and Thor is suddenly glad he hadn't dallied.

So the Valkyries are capable of expression after all. Although Thor supposes a stone statue would fidget in the same embarrassed chagrin if it were subject to his mother's wrath. The Valkyries, whom he recognizes as his two guards, are staring straight ahead as usual, but one keeps adjusting her armor while the other plucks at a loose thread on the scabbard attached to her belt. His mother, standing before them, is terrifying in her stillness.

Thor stands to the side, glancing uncertainly between them. “My instructions had been succinct, I realize,” his mother says, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “However, there is only one way in and out of Asgard. _One_. Should our enemies have flooded our realm, it follows that that is the _only path_ they could have taken. How silly I am that I did not realize I must specifically and precisely lay out for you both that _Asgard's heir_ should not be permitted _anywhere near_ that entrance.”

The Valkyries fidget. They meant no harm, though. And this is sort of, in a way, Thor's fault. They'd trusted Thor's judgment. Trusted _him_. They'd seen that Thor acted with pure intention. Even Heimdall had seen that. Thor opens his mouth to defend them and promptly shuts his mouth at the look his mother turns on him.

She returns her attention to the Valkyries. “You are no more the heir's keepers. I name Randgrid and Þögn to your now former post. You are _never again_ to be the heir's keepers. Be grateful that this disgrace is all I choose to impose. Be thankful no true tragedy befell my son. And now be gone from my sight, and may your remaining eternity be spent seeking recompense.”

Shock looks no more natural on a Valkyrie’s face than chagrin. These are the fiercest souls Asgard has ever or ever will know, Thor has been taught. They protect the dead from horrors the living world cannot comprehend. If even his father had imposed such insult, they would have taken arm to defend their honor. But the queen's word is their law. They nod once in understanding and are gone before Thor can think to apologize.

Thor does not even know their names.

There isn't time for that brief thought to turn to uneasy regret before his mother turns on him. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Thor scuffs the floor with his boot, guilt settling in his belly, and not just for the Valkyries. “Yes,” Thor admits.

“Will it be worth it?”

The number of potential punishments awaiting him is endless – anything from confinement to his rooms until he is a century old to scrubbing all of Asgard by hand. But he had been on the Bifröst, the very first to greet their returning force flush with victory. “Yes,” Thor says, knowing nothing his mother imposes can make it not so.

His mother rubs her temple. “Such thoughtless determination to reach a war's front line, and here you've spent most of the celebrations cheering the battle rather than what the battle achieved. Will you glory so in battle, my son, that you forget to glory also in its end?”

His father has made only brief appearances in the celebrations – he's been organizing the battle's aftermath, Thor knows, and meeting with representatives of different realms to discuss the damage Jötunheimr has wrought. Thor knows also that he ought be beside his father, learning, rather than carousing with the warriors. But he cannot quite look at his father yet without seeing the Seidr in his hands. Has not quite reconciled his disappointment that his father felled the Jötun king with _words_.

“I would glory in a true end,” Thor mumbles.

“Ah,” his mother says. “And what part of this victory rings false to you?”

“The Jötun king invaded Midgard! I have not heard how many mortals were slain. But I know how many of our own were. Why allow him to live only to cause more destruction another day?”

“So not only would my young son have fought, he would have done a wiser job of it.”

Thor's ears heat. “I simply –”

“Do you listen at all to your tutor? To your elders? Notice the intricacies and grace with which your father converses with our allies? Do you heed _anything_ but your own brash counsel?”

“Mother –”

He's interrupted by his father's entrance. His father stands next to his mother, the golden patch over his empty eye socket still an unsettling sight. His mother turns to him and says, “Thor has decided he wishes to spend his afternoons tending Idunn's gardens. _All_ of his afternoons. A strange request, as between his tutoring in the mornings and our evening meals, this will quite occupy our son's entire day.”

“But I –”

“Indeed,” his father says over Thor’s protests. “And how long has Thor decided to engage his afternoons so?”

“When I no longer have nightmares of my firstborn son split open on a Jötun blade,” his mother says, and if the Valkyries can cower before her, Thor decides there can hardly be shame if he does the same. He stares miserably at the floor and has the distinct feeling that that is going to be a _long_ time from now.

“A reasonable endeavor,” his father says. “Considering. And fortuitous – I believe our son's close companions Fandral and Volstagg have likewise volunteered.”

“Then, Thor, you had best go fetch them. Idunn is expecting you.”

Startled, Thor says, “Now? But the celebrations–”

“You’ve indulged in them long enough. Now, Thor.”

Biting his lip, Thor says, “I am sorry. Truly. I acted rashly and–”

“And you would change nothing if given the opportunity to live day over?” his mother says.

Not if he had a thousand opportunities. His mother must see this answer in his face, for she merely points to the doorway, and with a sigh Thor obeys.

It is good that Asgard has such astute, wise rulers. It is. Thor knows this. Sometimes he wishes they were just a little less so.

* * *

_Within the Mirror_

Time must pass. Loki eats and sleeps. At first he refuses to pace like some trapped animal, but the lack of activity is heavy in his limbs.

Are all Asgardian lodgings this stifling, or just their cages? In Jötunheimr, great distances separate their dwellings, frozen land stretching in all directions. A Jötun can breathe in such surroundings. Loki is accustomed to roaming miles a day, to climbing great spires – sometimes Jötun-made, sometimes naturally born of the wind – so tall he thinks he could see all the realm from that height, and to diving into the freezing waters, effortlessly evading the great sea-spiders and poison-tipped crabs and hunting his own fish. There is always food, of course, in Laufey-king's temple, but the chefs never season it to Loki's liking. The cube prepares the fish adequately. So far it provides the same meal every time he opens the door, but Loki is used to monotony in his diet.

That is not to say he'll feel the same a year – or ten, or one hundred, or one thousand – later.

It is not just the dormancy, but this heat that weighs on him. He could change forms, as the All-Father had suggested. An Asgardian form would obviously not suffer as Loki is. But he will not. He won't change into a shape with a body that tolerates this temperature. He _won't_. Why should Loki have to change? In fact, he decides, the _cage_ should be accommodating _him_.

Kneeling on the floor, palms against it, Loki concentrates. He has never before had to create cold, only draw upon its abundance, but he _is_ the rain and the ice and the snow. So Loki reaches deep into the cold that is always within him, and he forces it outward. Cold creeps from his hands and spreads slowly across the floor. Oh, what a strange, unsettling sensation, a thousand strings hooked into his pores, stealing his inner frost and spiraling it outwards.

The ice crawls to the walls, reaches for the ceiling. He reaches within himself and keeps taking – the idea that the frost within him is anything but bottomless is absurd. The only limit will be what length of time his body tolerates acting as conduit. Layer after layer spreads over the cage, covers the bed, coats the walls, drips and refreezes as icicles from the ceiling. More and more and more cold pushes out from his hands. Loki is gasping, light-headed from the exertion, but the chill against his skin is glorious.

“Take me from Jötunheimr, All-Father,” Loki gasps, “No matter. I bring it with me.” He keeps pushing, even as his arms shake and his breath becomes shallow and harsh, until the cage is unrecognizable. Just ice and soft snow and still Loki _pushes_ until he can almost pretend he is home, until even the hateful mirror is frozen over and hidden but for just a glimpse of reflected light – until he collapses forward, sighing, blissful cold encasing him.

The blanket is lost under his ice, but Loki has no need for it.

He dreams of crouching in the rafters of Laufey-king's temple, throwing his knife, and watching the blood bloom across the All-Father's back like unfurling wings. He dreams of the Mother, draped in fur, and himself happily curled among the monsters at her feet. He dreams of the monastery, covered in dust, and himself happily curled among the books. He dreams of diving into an ocean, deeper and deeper until the blue of the water becomes black and he loses track of which direction is up.

And he awakes choking, lungs burning. He thrashes wildly, confused and disorientated and unable to breathe. He fumbles, hits the side of what must be the bed, and then drags himself onto it, gasping and gagging, coughing out his body weight in water.

The ice melted while he slept.

All of it.

And now the bed is surrounded by a small sea.

At midday on Jötunheimr when the suns are highest, the edges of the land melt and add to the seas, but by nightfall they are frozen over again so that over the seasons neither land nor sea ever gains true ground. _Know your coasts_ , Laufey-king would lecture Helblindi and Býleistr, while Loki eavesdropped from the rafters. _They are never-changing and always-changing, and you must know intimately the difference._

Loki holds a hand to the water, determined to refreeze it – it's already the same dreadful temperature as the cage – but…no. He has to be smart. Clever. Blind stubbornness will only get him so far. He slides off of the bed, the warm water reaching his hips, and retrieves a plate of fish from the cube dispenser. He sits back on the bed, cross-legged, heedless of how the blankets are soaked. His eyes track over the cage.

He's going to solve it soon. A few months at the outside. The cage's power, its limits, everything the cubes can do, how to maintain the ice. Why the cage's dimensions feel both larger and smaller than what his eyes tell him they are. Why the walls feel as flexible as snow, even as he cannot seem to change their shape. Maybe not how to harness these powers nor how to break them, but he will understand them. And he'll replay in his mind every memory, every lesson he's overheard Laufey-king impart to Loki's brothers, every spell he knows. He'll force himself to recall again and again what he saw of Asgard from the All-Father's shoulder, and he'll test each corner of that memory for a weakness.

A few months at the outside.

And then what will occupy him?

The walls are just a touch closer than he remembers them being before he froze the cage. He should wait before trying again, lest each time they are closer yet.

* * *

_Outside the Mirror_

Before the war Thor had a tendency of skipping more tutoring sessions than he'd attended. His tutor Radulf neither complained about nor tattled on him – “It will be your own fault if you reach adulthood without a single scrap of knowledge between your ears,” he would say, as if learning dates and numbers would ever prove useful. And the only thing Thor wants to learn – how to fight – everyone insists he is too young and small for.

But now, given the way when Thor asks his mother each morning how her dreams were she invariably answers, “Bloody and mournful,” Thor has decided that even if perfect attendance does not work in his favor towards lessening his sentence, at the very least it cannot work against it.

So each morning he trudges to the main library, feet dragging on the floor to prolong the moment until his daily torture begins.

“He deigns to join me again!” Radulf calls out when Thor enters the library. If Radulf knows the reason for Thor's unusual diligence, he does not say. He points to the chair opposite him. “Sit. There’s a good prince. Now where did we leave off? I am unused to needing to remember. Usually enough time has passed it suffices to start over from the beginning.” Despite his words, there is only good humor in his tone.

“You started to tell me how you lost your arm on Jötunheimr,” Thor says. It's not exactly a lie. Radulf is enormously proud of the tale; Thor would be, too, if it were his. Radulf has spent the past few weeks telling it at the slightest provocation. Not only is it the last thing Radulf had been telling him yesterday, it had also been the first. Thor has, between the tutoring sessions and the weeks of celebrations, heard the story nearly twenty times. _He_ could tell it flawlessly.

But it is an excellent story, and Thor does not mind rehearing it – not the least of which because the longer Radulf spends telling stories, the less time is spent forcing Thor to memorize every event in every realm since the beginning of time. No one listens when Thor attempts to explain – reasonably! – what a useless, impossible endeavor this is. It does not help that his tutor has no discernible system; Radulf teaches whatever Radulf feels like teaching.

“Of course, of course! What a glorious moment that was. We'd fought them back from Jötunheimr, halved their army before we even arrived there. Abominable place, nothing but ice and cold.” Thor has only ever seen pictures. He hasn't yet found a way to convince Heimdall to allow him to travel anywhere outside Asgard, let alone the home of their greatest enemy. “I was slaying Jötnar on every side – they grew like weeds around us. One craven lout snuck up behind me and lops off my arm.” Radulf makes a chopping motion at his shoulder and lifts his sleeve to show Thor the now-healed wound. “Right here. Not even a clean cut. They don't know how to make proper weapons, do they? Certainly that one wasn't expecting the spray of blood.”

Radulf laughs. “Cold-blooded things they are. Forget what it's like to face off against a thing with blood that burns. Could tell he wasn't expecting it – so he lops off my arm and he's sprayed, blinded. I hadn't time to pry the sword from my dead fingers on the ground, but the bone cut into a sharp point, so I picked up the arm and you know what I did with it?” Thor does know. He shakes his head anyway, leaning forward eagerly. “I stabbed him through the eye. Right to the brain; he fell over dead. Then I got a better grip on the arm, swung around, and took off the head of the one creeping up behind me.”

After detailing his next several kills while Thor nods in encouragement, Radulf remembers, unfortunately, that he is supposed to be teaching Thor. On the best days he does not remember until Thor is already gone. “What can you learn from that?”

“Be resourceful?” Thor guesses, the first answer to come to mind. It doesn't matter his guess. He's long learned that if he guesses correctly, Radulf just changes the answer. “Doesn't do for children to go thinking they know everything,” Radulf had scoffed the one time Thor called him on it.

True to form, Radulf shakes his head. “Only incapacitating hits count. He got my arm – hah! Showed him what I could do with the other, didn't I?” Radulf nods to himself, satisfied. “And!” Radulf exclaims, clearly just thinking of this, “Know the differences between your enemy and you. Anything could be an advantage. What's the difference between us and a Jötun?”

“They're blue,” Thor says.

“That's the best you have?”

“Uh, they've horns.”

Radulf taps his shoulder stump. “And?”

What else has Thor heard said? “They have markings. They're born with some. And they cut others into their skin. And, uh, they are just one sex. And, and, they're tall? Very tall?”

“You're reciting anatomy! I didn't say give me a diagram! What's the _difference_?”

“They're monsters,” Thor says. “That's the difference.”

“Some of them,” Radulf agrees. “Some Asgardians are, too.” Thor frowns and opens his mouth to protest, when Radulf says, “A Jötun would've done what I did. I saw them. There is no distinction to them between their bodies, their weapons, and their land. Asgardians are different. _They_ knew that. That's why he didn't expect what I did.”

“Oh,” Thor says, even though he doesn't quite follow.

“Keep going,” Radulf says. “What else is different?”

“They're crueler,” Thor says. “ _They_ wouldn't have shown _us_ mercy in the end.”

Radulf frowns at him. “Eh?”

“My father let him live,” Thor blurts. He hasn't been able to stop dwelling on this. “After all they did, my father let their king live with nothing more than a warning. The ice king hasn't learned anything! He'll act again, just as worse! Why? Why did my father do that?”

Radulf leans back in his seat, scratching at the stump of his arm. “Isn't that a question for him?”

“He will only say that I'll understand when I am older,” Thor says. That's always the response to the questions Thor most wants answered – his father, his mother, even Heimdall, like they've had some conference and come to an agreement that none of Thor's questions can be addressed with anything more than infuriating, vague hints. _When you're older_ , they keep telling him, or, even worse, _It's different for the king on Asgard's throne_ , without telling him _how_.

When Thor has resigned himself to Radulf just ignoring his questions, too, Radulf says, “Jötunheimr has never been our friend, but it was not always our enemy. Perhaps that is what stilled your father's hand. Now!” Radulf announces, over-loud, silencing Thor before he can voice any of the eager questions that spring to his tongue. Radulf reaches behind himself to pull down a book from a nearby shelf, seemingly at random, and says, “Let's talk about – ah. A dissertation on the civil wars of Múspellsheimr from the first three centuries of its recorded existence. A fine subject.”

Excruciating hours later, Thor meets Fandral and Volstagg on their way to Idunn's vast forest. Before this punishment, Thor had never actually stepped foot inside. His mother had often pointed out the forest, easily seen from his balcony – the vast stretch of lush greenery sprawling for acres, enormous red apples shining from trees no matter the season. But he'd lost interest upon learning there are no monsters within it; there is only Idunn.

Idunn herself within her forest is such a different woman than the one Thor is accustomed to he is doubtful they could be the same person. On the rare occasions she can be found within the palace proper, she is a small and quiet presence, easily overlooked. Hovering at the edges of hallways and rooms, her head ducked and gaze averted, her shoulders rounded in, she speaks freely – quietly – with Thor's mother, but otherwise seems to avoid conversation unless spoken to. Once or twice during an evening feast she has deigned to attend, Thor has tried engaging her. She'll listen, and smile politely, and offer answers of a word or two, and clearly want to be anywhere else but seated at that table, her forest the only topic that will properly hold her attention.

_Within_ the forest, her presence is felt at every step, in the soil below and in the tallest branches above, and her voice is loud and confident. Rarely speech – no , Idunn does not talk. She _hums_. Beautifully, the songs echoing throughout the forest no matter where she stands as if the trees carry along her voice. Her humming creeps under the skin, burrows all the way to the marrow, tells long, wordless tales that bleed together and have no beginning and no end and are filled with characters whose names are long lost, and at their finish Thor is left both with no memory of the tale and the impression that he could repeat it verbatim if asked.

Sometimes, at certain points in the songs, Thor will quite helplessly feel tears track down his cheeks. The first time this happened, Thor had wiped furiously at his cheeks, embarrassed, until he'd glanced to the side and seen Fandral and Volstagg surreptitiously doing the same. Now Thor allows the tears to fall without question or notice. It is as soothing as the rain, in a way.

Idunn does not talk, and she prefers her company to do the same. For such a serene, peaceful woman, she is still an Asgardian with an Asgardian's temper and exceptional aim – particularly with an apple. Any talk between Thor and Fandral and Volstagg that does not pertain to their work results in an apple right to the back of the head. Always the same spot, too; Thor already has a permanent bump.

He'd apologized to Fandral and Volstagg that first day, but they had both assured him they would have acted the same knowing the punishment.

“Thor, prince and friend, when we professed we would follow you anywhere and your any command, that was not a figure of speech,” Fandral had said, right before the apple hit his head. This was the seventh time she'd hit Fandral that day alone. His face in the dirt, Fandral had mumbled, “If this causes a bald spot, I am burning this forest to ash,” while Volstagg had patted his shoulder comfortingly.

Thor thought his mother would relent after a few weeks – a month at the most. But her dreams remain bloody and mournful, and after his sessions with Radulf, Thor spends every afternoon in silence, gardening. He does not mind the sweat or the outdoors or the dirt now forever under his fingernails, but this isn't how he's meant to get messy. He should be sneaking into the practice rings. Hunting in the outer forests or finally figuring out how to sneak into other realms. Anything but every afternoon toiling in silence, except for the ever-present humming.

“Perhaps if it rained we would be sent away early for the day,” Volstagg had delicately commented one day, since neither he nor Fandral officially know of Thor's habit. When soon after rain fortuitously began pouring, all that happened is they had been particularly wet and muddy when dismissed for the evening.

There should not even be this much to _do_. There cannot be one inch of soil they have not overturned, not one square foot they have not crawled over picking out weeds – and the tree moving. The never-ending, relentless tree moving. Thor had always assumed trees were planted and that's where they always are. And perhaps in any other forest but Idunn's that is so. But Idunn wants them _rearranged_ like trinkets on a shelf. She's even named them, and she expects Thor, Fandral, and Volstagg to likewise know every one.

Idunn, Thor is learning, is rather insane.

Almost every day she wants no less than three moved – sometimes no more than a hands-width to either side. So they must dig a hole precisely two feet deep and then uproot the tree to be moved. Between the three of them they are just capable of lifting it and dragging it to the dug hole, where they replant it and pack soil around the base. She scolds them if the branches drag too heavily on the ground, and when once they tried to pretend they'd moved a tree she'd wanted less than a pace to the side, she'd sent them to separate corners of the forest so they hadn't even each others' company.

“You would not think they can survive such constant uprooting,” Fandral once murmured, just barely audible. They have learned to speak very, very softly. To compensate, they scream to each across the dinner tables. But the trees not only survive – they thrive. The apples of the newly moved trees are always brightest, and they reflect Idunn's humming with devastating clarity.

Thor has wondered the same. “Is there even a _reason_?” Thor finally asks Idunn, crouched on the ground, pulling up weeds and tossing them aside.

Idunn stops humming and kneels beside him. “There is indeed a reason,” she says. She places a hand around his jaw and tilts his head, and she says, “Tell me, what do you hear?”

Thor listens, his hands paused in the soil. “The wind?” he says. “Rustling of the leaves?” Otherwise, the silence is gaping without Idunn's haunting melodies.

She removes her hand from his jaw and stands, absently smoothing her long, lavender dress, which must be impervious to dirt for how pristine it always is. “There is indeed a reason,” she repeats. “Not even Odin All-Father knows it, nor his father nor his father's father, nor any of your line. It cannot be told. It must be already understood. And the kings on Asgard's throne never do.”

Thor gapes at her, shocked that she would so casually admit to keeping secrets from his father; shocked that there is _anything_ his father does not know. With an absent pat to his head, she merely resumes humming and wanders off, while Thor's mind whirls with another mystery to unravel.

* * *

_Within the Mirror_

Loki paces. Endlessly. Back and forth in the small space between the bed and the mirror. Side to side stepping on to and across the bed.

He shifts. He must. Has to. What matter his pride with no witnesses? He shifts to small four-legged things and scurries along the floor. He shifts to winged things and glides in loops from ceiling to floor. He shifts to many-legged things and climbs up and down the walls. He shifts to no-legged things and slithers and oozes, searching for cracks through which he might escape and never finding a single one.

_Is it sorcery?_ Laufey-king had asked when Loki's shapeshifting abilities first manifested. It had been the only time Loki can recall his father-king taking an unabashed interest in him. He'd asked Loki a relentless series of questions – most of which Loki could no more answer than if Laufey-king had asked why muscle encases bone. That is how things _are_. Loki does not have to understand a shape from the inside out to copy it. The function follows the form. The shape knows how its pieces connect. It is as easy – and sometimes as imperative – as breathing.

_But is it sorcery?_ Laufey-king had insisted. It is and it is not, Loki had tried to explain. The act of shapeshifting is not. He knows the feel of drawing upon sorcery, and that is not what he feels when changing. Shapeshifting is flesh, and its malleability. Once his father understood that this is not a skill Loki could teach to others his interest had waned, and so Loki did not dare shift in his presence – and rarely outside of it, lest he had been seen and word gotten back.

Now, though, why not? He has nothing if not time. So when he is bored of pacing and scurrying and flying and climbing and oozing – as if there were anything engaging about any of those to begin with – he studies his reflection and tests the limits of his ability.

They are few.

Any species he can imagine he can become, even if his knowledge or mental image of the species is incomplete or blurred. He wills it of his flesh and his bones simply know the logic beneath skin. The first shift to any species is the easiest and the truest; no sorcery needed at all.

He begins to think of these as his true forms, and he finds he has one for every species. He'd never noticed this before. But then, even on Jötunheimr, he'd only ever experimented with winged and many-legged and no-legged creatures. _Simple_ creatures, and although Loki never forgot himself in those forms, his thoughts nevertheless likewise became simple. It is much more noticeable now that he attempts the intelligent species, which he has only ever known through books and so admittedly does not have much to compare his forms to. He is redheaded and gaunt in his Elf true-form, stout and rust-colored in his Muspelmegir true-form; he is spindly with orange crests and fats scales as a merman and scrawny and small with bushy brown hair as a Dwarf.

He does not attempt Asgardian-form. He _will not_.

But he is not limited to true forms. The slightest draw of sorcery and endless possibilities open, seemingly bound only by logic – he can deepen his voice when a Vanir of Vanaheimr so long as it is not deeper than Vanir voices seem able to lower, or grow taller as a Dwarf so long as he is not taller than Dwarves must be able to be. As Jötun he can wash his hair red but not blond, and as an owl his feathers blond but not green.

How dreadful it must be, Loki thinks, to be stuck always in one form.

This experimentation entertains for a time. Almost. Just enough. But it does nothing to stave off the pressing solitude. Just him, and his thoughts. Granted, there is nothing wrong with him, and his thoughts are quiet clever and complex and interesting, and on Jötunheimr he often would spend weeks to himself just traveling or practicing his sorcery. But if he'd desired it, company had never been far away.

That's when he recalls Laufey-king once mentioning a gatekeeper who sees all and hears all and so can almost be said to know all. Well, Laufey-king mentioned this to Helblindi and Býleistr, and Loki had fortuitously overheard. A gatekeeper, and Asgard has only one gate. Loki remembers the golden-eyed man on the Bifröst. If there is indeed a gatekeeper, would that not be him? Is he watching Loki now? Perhaps that is why the All-Father is so confident this mirror-cage will hold Loki that he sends no one to check. Why bother, if the gatekeeper will know the instant Loki acts?

Laufey-king never mentioned if the gatekeeper’s voice could extend as far as his eyes and ears, but he never mentioned if he couldn't. Standing in front of the mirror, uncertain if it matters which direction he faces, Loki shouts, “Can anyone hear me?” No answer. Louder, Loki calls again. Maybe there is no such gatekeeper. Or maybe the gatekeeper cannot actually see so far or cannot see into this cage.

Keeping in his mind's eye a clear image of the Asgardian's appearance, Loki shifts. He studies the results – the dark skin, shining eyes, gleaming plated armor. It is unsettling being in a form so much older than himself. If the gatekeeper is indeed capable of hearing him, Loki considers all that he wants heard. Complaints about his accommodations. Vitriol for his barbaric treatment. Derision that the All-Father had explained his situation as if Loki was supposed to _sympathize_.

“Gatekeeper,” Loki says, meeting his reflection's eyes, voice clear and even. “I see you.”

For a moment nothing happens. Then Loki feels, distinctly, eyes against him. Loki glances over his shoulder, half-expecting to see someone there even though his is still the only reflection. The feeling of being _watched_ persists. It's true, then. Someone is listening. His planned speeches, though, catch in his throat, and Loki instead whispers, “Is my not-father Fárbauti-king slain? I had no chance to inquire.”

No answer, but the gaze is steady upon him. “I do not – I do not prefer this cage, gatekeeper. It chokes me. If I were released, I could disappear. Tell the All-Father I shall be no trouble. I shall disappear to another realm and be no cause for concern. Asgard shall never again hear of Loki.” That is a not-lie. Loki tells those often. They are true when he says them, but he says them knowing full well they will not always be true. “No, I did not expect respite. And I suppose to plead mercy on my behalf is asking too much from a fellow prisoner.” That is a guess – the gaze is steady upon his skin. No way for Loki to gauge its truth.

So either the gatekeeper cannot answer him or will not. Loki shifts back to his own comfortable Jötun-form. His true form, the All-Father had called it. As if Loki has only the one. The heat, barely noticeable against Asgardian flesh, once more bothers.

“There was a monastery, gatekeeper,” Loki says. “I believe that is what such a dwelling is called. About three hours' distance from Laufey-king's temple. I discovered it not one year past. I believe – at one point, I believe there were not just Jötnar on Jötunheimr. Its doors were open to other realms. Fárbauti-king would not say when I asked.” Loki had never bothered to ask Laufey-king. Loki goes to the bed and lays down, closing his eyes. Underneath the gatekeeper's steady gaze, it is almost like not being alone.

“This was settled by the Elves and it was filled floor to ceiling with books. Most were destroyed and the library was in ruins. From abandonment, I thought at first. But I found blood on one of the shelves, so maybe not. I've spent hours and days salvaging the books as I can. There was one on poisons. That's the one I was reading, when – when…” Loki sighs. “I did not dare bring them home. Laufey-king would not approve of Elvish affects in his temple. Although he seems to approve of the poisons I offered for his use. There was another on – owls, they're called. The Elves are mad about them. Or, these Elves were. There are hundreds of kinds of owls across the realms. Did you know, gatekeeper? You must. Even Midgard has a few sorts. I'd only ever seen the dragon-eyes. They are called ice-owls in the book. I quite like them. They're clever, you see. They are white except for their horns, which are ruby-red. From a distance, only the horns are visible, and they look just like a pair of ice-dragon eyes. But there are so many other sorts. In so many colors. I hadn't – I had known the Universe is much larger than just Jötunheimr, but I had not known. Do you understand?”

Loki keeps talking, about the different books, the shape of the monastery, his theories on what happened, and his plans to search for other such dwellings once he'd learned what he could from this one. On and on and on, about his rooms, and how he would catch fish and the best places to find them, and the spells he knows to sear and season them just right. He talks of home.

The gatekeeper's attention is steady and only leaves him when Loki trails off, his eyelids slipping closed as he falls asleep.

* * *

_Outside the Mirror_

His father does not preface Thor's first lesson. He merely leads Thor, one day after hours spent toiling under the merciless and mad Idunn, to a staircase deep in the palace's heart that Thor has never before seen. They stomp up so many endless, twisting stairs they must be in the clouds by the time they reach the top, at which is a single door that melts into existence at their approach and melts to a solid wall once they are through. Beyond this hidden door is a vast cavern, crowded with strange objects, piled with books, and empty save for the discomforting and pervasive feel of old, old Seidr, so thick that it takes Thor a moment to remember how to breathe. A single, great fireplace fills the vast cavern with heat and the flicker of flames.

“What is this place?” Thor asks. “Why are we here?”

His father does not answer; he leads Thor to a pedestal on which rests a single smooth rock, small and an ordinary, dull grey.

As Thor reaches for it, his father says, “Any who touches this stone turns to ash.” Thor freezes. His father continues, “It takes days, and is agonizing, and once begun cannot be undone. And if he who touches this stone then touches another, that other is doomed to the same fate, and so on. So, too, if any touches the ash to which such unfortunate souls are reduced.”

Thor carefully hides his hands behind his back.

His father says, “What should be done with it?”

“Destroy it.” Thor eyes the rock distrustfully.

“You are certain you would never have need for it?”

“For _that_?” Thor says. He can think of many reasons why he might need something that could kill a man, or many men. But no circumstances under which he would subject even his most hated enemy to the torture his father described.

“I did not ask if you are certain you will need it. Only if you are certain you will not.”

“I won't,” Thor says.

“Very well. It cannot be destroyed. What now?”

“Everything can be!”

“This cannot. Even if it could, it is clearly an object of Seidr. Are you sure its destruction would have no consequence?”

Frustrated, skin crawling from the Seidr in this cavern, Thor says, “Hide it, then! Where it cannot be found.”

“Even by you?”

“Yes!”

“What if someone searches for it? How will you stop them if you know not yourself from where to keep them?”

“I do not know,” Thor grumbles, arms crossed. He is supposed to be done with lessons for the day. He has already suffered through Radulf's so-called tutelage and Idunn's chores. “What is the correct answer?”

“I asked not for the correct answer,” his father says. “There is not one. But an answer must be given, and I asked for yours.”

When he does not answer, his father, with no warning, reaches for the stone – _touches_ it. “No!” Thor chokes out, and without thinking he throws himself forward between his father and the pedestal, with one hand shoving his father away and with the other knocking the pedestal over. But it is too late! One of his father's fingers touched the stone! He – he is going to –

“Thor,” his father says, mild as ever, and even over his own thundering heartbeat Thor hears a hint of pride. “It would appear to me you do, in fact, have an opinion.” He is studying something at Thor's feet, and Thor dumbly follows his gaze. Thor had not even realized he'd thrown his leg out, so that his boot caught the stone from skittering away – from possibly reaching and harming someone else…

“There is a stone such as I described. This?” His father reaches down and retrieves the stone. “This is just a rock. Take this, Thor, and think very carefully about what you would do with that stone.”

“Why?” Thor asks, gingerly taking hold of the rock.

“Because the All-Father balances on his shoulders many burdens, burdens which are his honor and his privilege to bear alone, and it is time you begun to learn of them.”

Thor straightens, standing as tall as he can although he yet comes to his father's midriff. Although a nagging voice in his mind reminds him that if he is to have more lessons, he'd much rather they be learning to fight, he quiets that voice as best he can. He will not disappoint his father, nor his realm. Still, he cannot help but ask, cannot entirely erase the doubt from his tone, “Sorting rocks?”

“Choices,” his father says. “It is about _choices_ , Thor.” His father hesitates, a strange sadness on his face, before he says, “You will be – you will be a very wise king, my son. A _great_ king, and I will do everything in my power to ensure you are well prepared to be so.” He taps the rock in Thor's palm. “Now leave me for now, and think very carefully.”

Thor does not. He _means_ to, he wants so very much to be worthy of his father's wisdom, and the rock is a heavy enough weight in his pocket, but as he wanders the palace halls he thinks instead about the tower and its reek of old Seidr. That's not what Seidr is _for_ – it ought not be hoarded, sunk into walls or trapped in little trinkets. It is meant to be released and never looked back upon.

Ending up on the Bifröst, Thor halts well short of reaching Heimdall's post and seats himself, legs kicking off the edge. His skin itches – he shudders to think some of the Seidr in the room left with him – and with closed eyes and a deep breath he calls it. The rain. Just enough clouds to turn grey the sky. Just a drizzle. He takes out the rock and he tosses it off of the bridge, watching it fall into the crashing water far below.

And he sighs, the last of the tension within him uncoiling.

* * *

_Within the Mirror_

A third door appears in Loki's cage, right next to the food door. Loki, cross-legged on the bed with his chin in his hands, considers this new development. He'd taken no precautions upon discovering the first two – disoriented, trapped, desperate, he'd torn into the food and gulped down the water with only minimal thought to traps or tricks or poisons. He's been taught better than that – even Fárbauti-king, usually more forgiving of Loki's indiscretions, would've boxed his ears. He can neither undo his past hastiness nor count on such continued blind luck.

That is not precisely what is giving him pause. This box is _new_. It is something different, and Loki is starved for stimulation. He wants to savor this.

He leans forward enough to trace the edges of the box, comparing it to the other two and noting no differences between the three. Another food source, perhaps? But why _now_? All that has changed between now and when he first arrived is he's begun speaking all his thoughts aloud like a madman to a mysterious gatekeeper who may or may not actually exist. Even though speaking his thoughts aloud, regardless of whether he actually feels the maybe-imaginary gatekeeper's presence, serves to make him feel _less_ mad. His most private thoughts he keeps to himself, but with each second that passes privacy seems an increasingly more nebulous concept. And a life not lived in this cage ever a more abstract dream.

“This is a weapon, gatekeeper,” Loki notes. He absently takes and bites into another charr from the half-finished plate beside him. “This is a weapon in a room of weapons. I wondered at first if I am in a vault of weapons because _I_ am the weapon. But this was already here. And why would it be in a vault of weapons if it were not itself one?”

Asgard must have actual cages for prisoners. Even Jötunheimr does. Of course, Jötunheimr's cages are actually ice-dragon's bellies, but an ice-dragon can swallow nearly anything whole and it takes almost three weeks to be completely consumed by the acid in its stomach. And if neither Laufey-king nor Fárbauti-king has revoked his sentence within three weeks, then the rest of that prisoner's days are going to be spent in an ice-dragon's belly regardless of how long it takes to die.

But this – this is not a cage. Not how Loki originally understood it to be. It is a weapon in a vault filled with ancient, powerful weapons. “This is a weapon,” Loki repeats. He kneels on the floor and presses an ear to the wall. “No two cages will be the same, gatekeeper,” Loki says slowly. “Is that right? I brought this cage with me. The All-Father – his eyes did not catch on anything but me when he looked through the mirror. He did not see what I see.” Palm against the wall, Loki presses his ear closer. Feels again that sense of being surrounded by something malleable. He can almost, if he strains, hear the distant murmur of voices.

He pushes tentatively at the wall with his sorcery, testing it, but it swallows the sorcery and leaves no trace behind. This is a weapon, but it is not _his_ weapon. “I cannot trust it,” Loki tells the gatekeeper. He does not always remember which thoughts he has thought and which he has voiced, so he doubts the gatekeeper can always follow his one-sided conversation. But if the gatekeeper wishes to complain, Loki whole-heartedly invites him to come and tell Loki so himself.

He sits back and considers the third box.

Considers this cage that may not be a cage. The first two boxes contained exactly what Loki had needed – what he had needed so desperately that he had had no room to refuse or distrust. Whatever in this box will be something Loki yet needs. “What am I missing, gatekeeper?” Loki asks. Aside from everything.

He paces around the cage again, finding the denial of instant gratification a pleasant itch as he muses aloud through his theories.

The problem is that the gatekeeper is a fine audience. No one has ever even pretended to listen to Loki for so long. So during his efforts to unlock the mirror's secrets (which he discusses aloud) and devise his own escape (which he keeps to himself), Loki tells the gatekeeper about Helblindi and Býleistr. How Helblindi follows at Fárbauti-king's heels and mimics his every move and how Býleistr can become lost within Laufey-king's temple, never mind the disastrous results when he steps outside of it. How they are sweet, in their own vicious, slow-witted way, and do not seem to have ever registered how ill-thought of Loki is. How Loki, sometimes, hates them for it.

Loki sings ballads – some he knows from listening to his brethren, like the ones about how Ymir created the Universe and about the fall of the great prophet Mímir. Others he learned from the dozens of books of Elvish ballads. Though Loki does not know the language, he learned to read it and to decipher how the writing indicates pitch and tune. They are beautiful, and Loki tells the gatekeeper how he wishes he'd the opportunity to learn what they were about. The gatekeeper is particularly attentive when he sings. Loki talks of spells, and sorcery, and explains about all his true forms. He talks about the Mother and how the dragons bowed before her, and about Fárbauti-king, who always listened to Loki, and about Laufey-king, who did not.

Loki talks, often, about owls.

“If this is a weapon, it is not a weapon of fear.” Loki thinks. “I hate this cage but I do not fear it. This is where I do not wish to be, perhaps. This is how – this is what I imagined Asgardian homes look like. Low and small and dead. If I dwelled in underground caves, I think I would be on a spire with an endless fall around me. Oh,” Loki sighs, momentarily distracted by the idea. “What I would give for such a spire. I would turn into a dragon-eye and fly around it in lazy circles, down and down and down until I never reach the bottom.” Snagging another fish, Loki stands and circles the cage. His legs are cramped, but they usually are, no matter how he paces and paces.

“But does that make this a thing of _torture_? Not necessarily the same as a weapon. This is not about torture, or I would not have such fine food. I'm missing something. What is the difference, gatekeeper?” Loki muses. He lays back on the bed, although the material still feels uncomfortable. Foreign. “Where I don't want to be.” The gatekeeper's attention is steady. “That's why the food is to my liking. Why I have these bare necessities. Things of torture _break_. They shred. They leave behind wrecks.” Loki turns what he knows over in his mind. He is no use to the All-Father dead.

When he can stand the mystery no more, Loki eases the door of the third box open.

There is a book.

With hands that tremble just the slightest bit, Loki takes the book out and studies its cover. It is a language he understands – a collection of ornithological essays on a species native to a realm of which Loki has never heard. Placing the book carefully, reverently, on the bed, he closes the door and then he reopens it.

Another book.

This one is on Elvish poetry. He snatches this book too and hugs it to his chest. Thoughts of traps and tricks and poisons have fled his mind, and he closes and reopens the box until he can barely move for the stacks of books he accumulates. He chooses one at random and simply holds it, relishing the weight of it in his hands. Then he turns it open to the first page and begins reading, repeating aloud to the gatekeeper the interesting bits.

This may not be a weapon. This may not even be a cage. What that leaves – what this place could possibly be – Loki, just this moment, does not care.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Revised chapter posted August 2014.**

_Outside the Mirror_

Another lesson. Another object with a blood-soaked origin and a blood-soaked future, and his father asks, “And this, Thor? What would you do with this?”

It is but another of Thor's increasingly frequent sessions in that Seidr-choked tower. Scenarios regarding objects and relics of terrible power, and each time Thor's father questions him relentlessly on what should be done with them, backing Thor into untenable positions. Soon his father gives explanation of what he chose, what his own father and father's father chose, what went well, and what did not – that more often than not the most advisable action is to do nothing. And his father begins to explain that this is the true, secret, sacred purpose of the king on Asgard's throne.

All the burdens of rule are heavy, and they are shared by the ruling bodies of all the realms, be they kings or queens or representatives or something else, Thor's father explains. But this, this burden is heavier than others, because it will one day be Thor's alone.

There are _countless_ artifacts and relics and weapons and books of unfathomable – unspeakable – age and potential; they are throughout the Universe scattered and hunted and hoarded, coveted and broken and pieced together; hidden under molten rock, fallen into flowing rivers, mounted on pedestals and worshiped, mistaken for trinkets and scrap, passed down as heirlooms and hidden and found again and again and _again_.

Pieces of the old worlds, the old gods, the lost realms and forgotten histories, refashioned and repurposed under new skin – a pendant now may've been an old monster's eye, a book crafted from a skinned sacrifice eons past, runes and enchanted words scavenged from a language that exists in no record or mind. Half of them have the power, if used just so, to level a realm – more than one could make slaves of all creatures with a beating heart, could eat the _Universe_ from the inside out. And even those with smaller potential, diminished might, less fatal purpose – even those cannot escape notice.

And this secret cavern at this tower's top is map and key and ledger all. Containing records that update if one of these objects under watch so much as _wobbles_. Other records that his father must send others out to seek updates, without revealing why. A thousand thousand times a day if need be – for these chargers are ever in motion – Thor must learn to consider an object, how it moves, is pursued or forgotten, and decide what to do. To let it be. To retrieve it, keep it close, keep it hidden, keep it far. Destroy it.

And do all this and know that there is no correct answer. Only the answer he chooses.

“What gives us the right? To decide this for all the realms?” Thor asks after several sessions, uneasy with this new knowledge of what would be one day expected of him.

“The agreement at the long table,” is the only answer his father will provide. Radulf has taught Thor all that is known of the long table – that mythic meeting between the original rulers of all the original realms; theory places that number between twenty and forty, but no verifiable records of the event exist. The meeting at which the realms were given name and purpose and boundary.

That some bunch of old gods eons past thought they could give one being so much responsibility – thought it _wise_ – sits poorly with Thor, and he says as much to his father. His father does not disagree; nevertheless, the lessons continue, even though they only progress so far as the records are legible only to a king's sight. When Thor tries reading them, they appear as incomprehensible swirls.

Thor does not _want_ this responsibility. But he wants to do right by his people. So if his father says this task must be his, then it is his, and if his father says Thor may speak to no one of what transpires in this tower even though Thor aches to confide all to Fandral and Volstagg, than Thor will hold his tongue, and in every way he knows how Thor will seek to make his father proud.

Another lesson in the tower, but this time his father does not speak of _things_ , of multiplying rings that yield endless wealth, of ships that are infinitely larger on the inside than the outside, of rocks that turn the living to ash, of a mirror that is a doorway. No, during this lesson, his father says, “Imagine this: someone, a man, who hears all and sees all? No material known can halt this man's sight. No distance can muffle sound from his ears. No secret can be kept from him, and his memory for secrets is without limit. What would you do with such a man?”

It takes a moment for the implication to sink in. “ _Heimdall_?” Thor blurts. “You speak of – Heimdall is not a…a _thing_. You cannot – he is not – is he not here by _choice_?”

“How often must I tell you, Thor? There are times to be ruled and swayed by sympathy and emotion, and in those times I doubt your heart would ever lead you astray. But _not for this_. What would you do?”

“I would ask Heimdall what he wants!” Thor says. “Not decide for him!”

He refuses to answer, even in the face of his father's disappointment. “This, then, someone you do not know: a shapeshifter. A Seidr-wielder of immeasurable power, who will hone his power to devastating purpose – born an agent of chaos, who is prophesied to leave certain ruin in his wake?”

That one, at least, is simple. “Slay him,” Thor says. He reckons that is a decision any ruler would feel free to make, not just Asgard's. Certainly the answer is not to fell him with _words_.

“Ah, but he has not left ruin yet. What if when you know of him, he is but a child? Yet his terrible future certain?”

That makes it even simpler! “Make sure he does not become that terrible person, then.”

“How?” his father asks.

Thor shifts from foot to foot. “Teach him to be better?” he ventures.

“How do you know that won't merely seal his fate?”

Thor blinks. “But I would be preventing it!”

“Ah,” his father says. “But that is the tricky part of prophecies. You only ever know a piece of the story. You do not know if your teaching him is counter to the prophecy or integral to it. By doing anything at all you could be ensuring it comes to pass.”

“Then I do not know!” Thor says, his patience for these riddles his father insists on burdening him with growing thinner and thinner each session. “You could – you could keep him, I suppose. Locked up. Asgard might have use of a shapeshifting Seidr-user one day. He could be used–”

His father interrupts, “And could you use a living creature as dispassionately as an object? Remember, you are _keeper_. If you hoard, if you covet, if you entitle yourself to the power under your charge, you are no different than those whom it will be your due to protect from such power.”

No, Thor doubts he could ever be so dispassionate. But a better solution occurs to him. “Then…could that be taken? His Seidr? He would be just a boy, even if he could shapeshift,” Thor says. It would not be like with the objects, which cannot be separated from their purpose. Men are _supposed_ to be separated from their Seidr. “Is that correct?” Thor still cannot help but ask.

His father sighs. Weary. And then he does something astonishing. He admits, “I do not know.”

“This is what it means, then?” Thor asks. “This is what it means when it's said it is different for the king on Asgard's throne? That he must make these terrible choices?”

“Kings on any throne must confront terrible choices,” his father says. “That Asgard's king must confront choices more terrible than most does not separate him.”

“Then _how_?” Thor insists.

Just when Thor thinks his father means not to answer, his father says, “Your own Seidr, Thor. We are direct descendants of Asgard's first king, who won this realm through the use of his unthinkably powerful Seidr. Do you think any boy could call thunderstorms on a whim? Your own Seidr – what would you choose to do with it?”

Thor gapes, wondering if his father can possibly be serious. Yes, Thor may feel a certain kinship with the rain, but that pales compared to kinship felt between two people. But, Thor remembers, thinking of a pen and paper in his father's hands, maybe his father _is_ being serious. “That is the simplest question yet, father,” Thor says. “I would be rid of it, and know love.”

“You are certain?” his father says, though no amount of doubt in his voice could make Thor question himself. But his father forestalls Thor's further arguments and dismisses Thor for the day, saying only, “Perhaps you ought use your head and think your answer over, rather than throw your troubles over the Bifröst to be washed away.”

The session leaves disquiet in Thor's belly, and when he ends up cross-legged on his balcony, head up so he can study the sky, he defiantly embraces the restlessness beneath his skin and brings forth the rainfall. His mother finds him there some time later and seats herself next to him, smoothing out her long dress and then cupping his head in her hand, urging him to lean against her. He does so, his own fingers finding and tracing the soft gown stretched over her belly, beginning to round with his yet-born brother.

After a peaceful time spent merely listening to his mother's gentle, steady breaths, Thor says, “Do you think my brother will like the rain, mother?”

“I think,” his mother says, conspiratorially soft, “Your brother will like anything _you_ like, my son.”

Thor hides his smile in the folds of his mother's gown, trying to picture what his little brother may be like. It would not be like with Fandral and Volstagg, who are the closest people to Thor and yet are ever at a distance from him, aware of the difference between their future stations and Thor's. No, his brother would stand right beside him.

When the evening begins to darken, Thor whispers, “I want you to know, little brother, I will protect you. Always. No potential punishment will stall me from doing so. And when you are grown, you and I, we will protect everyone from the Jötnar and any other that seeks to harm us and ours. We will be the fierce keepers of the realms. I promise all of these things.”

“Oh, Thor,” his mother says. “My bright, foolish Thor. You cannot promise such things.”

“I mean them!”

She runs her fingers gently through his hair. “I know you do, my son. But you cannot make light promises. And you cannot make promises lightly. Your word will be binding in a way most others' words never will be. What will you protect him from? The Jötnar? While your brother is young he will be protected by all of Asgard. When he is grown, he will find as much insult in the assumption that he needs protection as you one day will. From his own actions, then? You cannot protect those you love from their own foolishness. Your brother will do foolish things, and you will have to watch him while you stand idly by.”

In the distance, lightening splits the sky, although Thor had not meant to cause it.

His mother sighs and pushes back his hair to kiss his forehead. “Go to sleep, Thor. Rest.”

“I am not tired,” Thor says crossly.

“Perhaps. But if you are half-asleep when you, Fandral, and Volstagg arrive at the practice rings tomorrow, Branthoc will only force you to work twice as hard. He has no tolerance for such excuses.”

Thor straightens and stares at his mother. “The practice rings?” he repeats, barely daring to believe.

“Sometimes…sometimes I forget that you are not yet your father,” his mother says. Thor frowns, and his mother looks as if she might explain further, but then she simply leans forward and kisses his forehead again. “Sleep well, my Thor.” She rises. “I anticipate sweet dreams this night. I hope the same for you.”

But Thor does not sleep that night; he watches the rain, grinning and waiting for the morrow.

* * *

_Within the Mirror_

Loki reads and he reads, ensconced between stacks of books that reach the ceiling. Histories and literature and sciences from more realms than he knew existed, and each time he comes across a new creature he leaps up to the mirror and practices its form, studying his true form and then testing the limits of the creature's senses and calling upon his sorcery to see how strange he can make it appear while still being the same creature. He learns new spells and tests those he can, the sorcery easily swallowed by the cage walls, and rather wishes a fourth box would appear that would provide him the spell-ingredients he currently lacks.

Days pass where he forgets to eat, too engrossed in a subject, and on the more interesting topics he conducts one-sided discussions with the gatekeeper. Sometimes he imagines the gatekeeper agrees with him, and other times assigns the gatekeeper the opposite view and argues loudly and passionately against him. Often he switches sides mid-argument, merely because he can.

He does not return a single book, worried that once it is placed back into the box he'll have no way to retrieve it, and what if he later he wishes to refer to it again? He'd go mad knowing he might never see it again. More mad, that is. But eventually he must concede that there is no more space for even one more volume, no matter how slim, and he reluctantly begins returning his least favorites to the box, exchanging them for new ones.

Never has he had this much freedom, this must scope, to simply _learn_. None of his brethren to squint suspiciously at Loki when he expresses his sorcery in ways other than violent barbarism. No Laufey-king to loudly and snidely mark all of Loki's faults. No sneaking to the monastery to read in secret.

This cage is dangerous, moreso than Loki could've imagined. It could make him _complacent_ to be kept and could push completely from his mind thoughts of escape and revenge. Loki cannot let that happen – he _cannot_. So he forces himself to continue testing the limits of his cage and to dream of ways to escape.

And when he is despairing of ever finding a way out, a plan slowly creeps into his head.

“Laufey-king taught many things to Helblindi and Býleistr that he wished not to teach me, gatekeeper,” Loki says, tentatively. “And yet he did not want me far. Though I was always in his way, he grew cross if I disappeared. So I learned to make a copy. A shade of myself.” Loki murmurs and a mirror image of himself shapes into existence. “They are just illusions. But I can make them look solid enough, and if I concentrate, I can see through their eyes, talk though their mouths. One day I think I could make an army of them. But it gets tricky, trying to focus on more than one. They start flickering away. So I would create this shade to sneak wherever Laufey-king and my brothers dwelled, while I kept in obvious sight elsewhere. But the shades,” Loki now speaks carefully, chooses his words with utmost discretion, “cannot _do_ anything. Cannot touch. Cannot manipulate. No harm. They can only observe. And they always, _always_ return.”

Loki directs the shade to press a hand against the mirror, press _through_ – the gatekeeper's attention burns Loki's back, and the shade pulls back and flickers away. Loki swears to himself.

That was his chance! Loki had been so sure of the gatekeeper's sympathy. Why else would he listen and keep Loki company? Will the gatekeeper send someone to punish him? Although Loki was not himself sure until this moment it would work, now the gatekeeper knows Loki can send shades beyond his cage. Like a second layer of sense, Loki had felt what the shade's hand had felt; and even in the split second the shade's hand had been through the mirror, he had felt the change in temperature. It had worked. It had _worked_ , and now the gatekeeper knows, and surely that means the All-Father will soon know.

Loki waits and waits and waits, stomach twisting, angry he'd so quickly revealed his hand, but nothing happens. And the gatekeeper's attention is steady.

_I can no more have a Jötun wandering Asgard's halls than I can leave you to your own devices elsewhere_ , the All-Father had said. Perhaps…

Loki calls up another shade. He studies his own blue skin, his twisting horns, his raised marks. When he finally allows the shade to shift, he allows it to at last reveal his Asgardian true-form – pale, pale skin clothed in black and green, bright green eyes, smooth forehead. Loki's conception of himself Is mountain-steady, true form or not; any shape is still Loki. But some shapes fit better. This shape, although Loki refuses to shift himself to confirm his theory, would fit him as well as if it were the only skin he knew.

The pale face regards him passively, blankly, the green eyes unblinking. Loki is momentarily disoriented, seeing and hearing through both sets of eyes and ears. Then he closes his own so that he is looking at his Jötun form. In his shade self, Loki presses a hand once more against the mirror.

“Please,” he says.

An endless pause, and then the gatekeeper's attention abruptly, _deliberately_ , shifts elsewhere.

With fervent relief, Loki whispers, “Thank you, gatekeeper,” as his shade-self slips through the mirror.

* * *

_Outside the Mirror_

Leaning against his balcony railing, heedless of how the rain has matted down his hair, drips from his eyelashes, has soaked through his night clothes, Thor gazes over his realm – from the sharp, gold point of the Bifröst tower to the deep green band of Idunn's forests, from the shape of Asgard's capital stretched below him to the outer cities and forests sprawled in the distance.

Though Fandral and Volstagg will be fast asleep at this late hour, a particular pattern of thunder will have them awake, dressed, and at Thor's doors within an hour. A different pattern, and they will be at his doors in minutes. He could return to forgoing his lessons and Radulf would say not one word. He could – and does – drench this city with rain simply because he wishes to, never mind that the people would surely prefer a clear sky.

And none of it because Thor is prince. None of it because he is Odinson. All of it because he is not yet either – not really, not how he will be – and it matters not how he conducts himself until such time as he is.

Those Valkyries whose name he still does not know had trusted Thor's judgment, while the rest of his realm says, _Not yet_.

Thor cannot sleep through the night like Fandral, nor through the night and, given the chance, through morning and afternoon, like Volstagg. He requires only a few hours no matter the exertions that occupied his day, and the remaining twilight he spends staring at his ceiling as lays awake in his bed, or else on the balcony, selfishly drenching his beloved realm because it soothes him, and the downpour is almost noise enough to drown out the heavy thoughts that are more easily disregarded during the day.

Training goes well. Already Thor can use most weapons with as much ease as if they are extensions of skin. Each new weapon Branthoc places in his hands, Thor learns to wield like he need only remember how. Branthoc's praise is minimal. But if Thor were any other way, Branthoc's rebukes would have been scathing. Volstagg and Fandral likewise grow more skilled, and if not at Thor's pace then still at a pace more impressive than most.

And later, while Thor and Volstagg grin from the sidelines, Fandral walks the Lady Sif through the day's lessons. Fandral shows all the promise of a deadly grace in the training ring, but during these lessons he is bumbling and clumsy. Sometimes, when Fandral has accidentally injured himself too many times, Thor will take pity and step in to finish Sif's lesson.

Thor is unsure the exact moment he becomes aware that there is someone in his chambers. Much as he cannot pinpoint when he learned to recognize the soundless approach of one of Idunn's thrown apples and to duck at the opportune moment. Stilling, Thor listens carefully. No sound of movement, no rustle of clothing, no murmured voice, no creak of a hinge or scratch of objects being searched. But someone – something – is there, and might not know that Thor stands behind the balcony door.

Feeling under the railing, Thor finds the dagger hidden there. He has twelve hidden throughout his rooms – always one in convenient reach. That was at Branthoc's urging. Branthoc has an air of crazed paranoia to him, and truthfully Thor had agreed only so Branthoc quit spitting in outraged disbelief that Thor wasn't already so prepared. Thor had privately thought that if anything reaches his chambers and Thor is not already surrounded by guard, a little dagger would do little good – such an enemy has already brought Asgard to ruin. But this moment Thor makes a mental note to thank Branthoc later for the suggestion.

He makes another note, when he peers around the corner and sees a young boy, his back to Thor as he studies something on one of Thor's bookcases, to pay Branthoc less heed. His intruder is a _boy_ , waif-thin and no older than Thor. The boy traces fingers over the books gathering dust on the shelves, not touching, not stealing, just…looking.

That is, he _appears_ to be a boy. Thor's fingers fidget around the dagger hilt. What would Branthoc see? Not a servant or thrall; they know better than to enter Thor's chambers at this hour. The boy could be an…an assassin. From a different realm, where the people are slighter. Except why would he think to search for Thor between some musty old tomes? He'd be searching the bed – and the balcony.

So a thief, then. Except he doesn't seem interested in taking anything. Just looking. And wouldn't a thief know better than to linger so? Besides, the Asgard palace has _twelve_ treasure rooms, not to mention the numerous weapons vaults. Surely a thief would know that the only possible thing of value in Thor's chambers is Thor himself? Unless he is simply a very poor thief. Or an even poorer assassin.

No. Just because Thor has not yet recognized a danger does not mean one is not present. And if Branthoc learns that Thor took no precautions when facing a trespasser in his chambers, Thor will still be listening to Branthoc yelling and spitting about it when they are seated at Valhalla's grand tables. So grip once more firm around the dagger, allowing the rain to fall harder to better mask the sounds of his movements, Thor prowls forward until he is a hairsbreadth from the boy. Then he swiftly brings his arm around and the dagger forward to press against the boy's throat.

Well, he means to.

But Thor meets no resistance, and thrown off balance, Thor stumbles _through_ the boy, who whirls around and gasps as Thor thunks against a bookcase. Thor looks up just as the boy disappears through the doors.

Rubbing his head, Thor retrieves his dropped dagger and twirls it carelessly through his fingers. He recounts the past few minutes over in his mind. Whatever that creature was, it was not a threat.

Thor returns to the balcony and replaces the dagger under the railing. He watches the rain until the dawn breaks, and he would never again have thought about his unannounced, green-eyed visitor – had, truthfully, forgotten the incident by the following afternoon.

But, two nights later while lying awake on his bed, he opens his eyes to see those green eyes an inch from his own. “Are you awake? Wake!” the boy demands, his voice hoarse as if from overuse. As Thor sits up, the boy straightens and crosses his arms over his chest. “Did you tell anyone I was here?” he says. Before Thor can answer, the boy snaps, “You mustn't. You mustn't tell anyone. I was not supposed to – why would you tell? I did nothing wicked. Who have you told? Tell me!”

The boys appears less substantial than he had before. Parts of him flicker. He seems unaware that he is standing partly in the bed so that one of his legs looks cut off at the hip.

“I told no one,” Thor says. He probably should have. Maybe if something interesting had actually happened. Maybe if Thor had not embarrassed himself falling into a bookcase.

The boy stares, mouth agape, as if Thor has just revealed to him every last one of the greatest secrets of all nine realms. Then he lunges forward – and Thor, forgetting the boy has no substance, instinctively learns back. He winces as his head thunks the headboard behind him. The boy is closer, standing entirely inside of the bed, and he leans so his arms bracket Thor's head, intent expression close. He probably means for his hands to rest against the headboard, but he's misjudged and they sink through.

“Say more things!” he orders.

Just to be sure, Thor pokes a finger at one of the arms by his head. His finger goes through, meeting no resistance. The boy doesn't seem to have noticed. “Things?” he repeats.

The boy keeps staring. And then he lets his breath out like a hiss. “More things than that!”

“What things?”

“Do I appear particular to you?”

Thor holds a hand in front of the boy's chest and, when the boy finally notices, Thor gently pushes back. The boy obviously doesn't have to follow his hand, but he does, straightening again. “I think,” Thor says slowly, “that first _you_ should say some things.”

“And then you will?”

“And then I will,” Thor agrees. Easier to agree. There is a glint of insanity in those green eyes. Thor would wager he would have no more luck arguing with this boy than he does with Idunn.

“Fine. I – what do you mean, you told no one? Are you an imbecile? You simply allow strangers free passage into your private quarters? What if I meant you harm? Idiot.”

Thor shrugs and says, “Shall I correct my oversight, then? Very well.” He shouts, “Heimdall! Heimdall, I–”

The boy gestures frantically, glancing wide-eyed between Thor and the entranceway. “No! Stop! Call no one! I mustn't be seen! Those were the terms. I think. I didn't – it was more of an unspoken agreement. Be quiet!”

“You should make up your mind, then,” Thor says.

The boy, still warily watching the entranceway, says absently, “What mind?” He turns back to Thor, calmer. “But you should have. Told someone. I could've been in your chambers to kill you. I wasn't, and now you should not tell anyone as I am saying plainly that I will do no harm. Is this enough things? Will you speak now?”

“Almost. What was your purpose if not to cause harm?”

The boy shifts from foot to foot. “Just learning the shape of things. This is a strange place. Even stranger than I could have imagined. Every one of your kind sleeps at this hour. Except for a few that are armed and pace repetitively. I thought this room was empty. The bed was. I am not supposed to be seen. Probably. But I was and no ill things befell me so I suppose it is acceptable the once. Twice, now. I should certainly not come back again. That might be asking for too much leniency. Is this enough? Is it now your turn?”

“Almost,” Thor says again. “What are you?”

The boy stills and thinks about this for some time. Thor does not seek to hurry him. Then the boy says, “Nothing. I am – nothing. A, a shade. A ghost.”

Thor tries to remember if he knows any tales of hauntings in Asgard. That seems the sort of tale to which Thor would've paid avid attention, even if told by someone as boring as Bermar. No, Thor decides. He has never heard of such things. “I was unaware Asgard had any ghosts,” Thor says. “Nor of any places that do. If you are dead, should you not be in Niflheimr under the child-empresses’s keep?”

The ghost flickers and becomes unclear around the edges. “I was. I am. Niflheimr…suits me ill.”

“And Asgard suits you better?”

“Perhaps. I have been exploring the many corners of this settlement. I thought this room was empty. I doubt I am supposed to talk to As – to the living.” The ghost looks down, avoiding his gaze, and apparently realizes where he stands and how he flickers. He backs up so he stands beside the bed and, brows furrowed, somehow forces his form to appear more solid.

“You're young,” Thor notes. “No older than me. How did you die?”

The ghost worries the edge of his tunic between his fingers. Again he spends time considering. He says, “I was sacrificed. To save my family.”

Thor can name dozens of cultures throughout the realms that would settle any number of disputes in this way. Despite the uneasy suspicion, based on the ghost's apparent discontent, that he did not go willingly to the next realm, Thor says, “A noble death, then.” The ghost's lip curls in a brief sneer. Not willingly. “What is Niflheimr like?”

“Small. And cramped.” The ghost tears more violently at his tunic. “Dull and dead. No voices but your own echoed ever back. Repetitive. Empty. It seeks constantly to trick you. To make you complacent with your death. It is – it is stifling heat and – and close walls and low ceilings and – and – and unbearable – unfathomable loneliness!” He is hissing by the end, chest heaving, eyes crazed.

Not quite the aloof image Radulf has painted. If he had brought a ghost to tell Thor first-hand accounts, maybe Thor would've been more attentive. “Well, you are welcome to haunt me. It would make my nights more interesting than waiting for the sun to rise. And you chose well. I am excellent company.”

The ghost blinks, coiled insanity unwinding with dizzying swiftness. “Oh,” he says.

“I am called Thor. What may I call you?”

The ghost again has to consider this. Perhaps being dead makes it more difficult to remember all of the trappings of being alive. Finally, the ghost says, “Ikol.”

Thor says, “I am pleased to meet you, Ikol.” Ikol blinks again. “Tell me of yourself.”

“I have nothing but my own memories.” Ikol worries once more at his tunic. “They bore me. And you said – surely it must be your turn now?”

“Of course,” Thor says. “What shall I speak of?”

Ikol huffs. “I am speaking no more. _You_ are. Just talk, and I will listen.”

“Do you know of the bilgesnipe? I felled my first just this morning.” Something of Ikol's wide-eyed intensity suggests to Thor that he could be speaking gibberish and Ikol would be equally riveted. Thor describes the shape of a bilgesnipe, and the pack he and his companions were hunting. But when he says, “The trick is to cut off the horns,” Ikol recoils and says, “No, no, no! I don't prefer this at all. That is – no. Something else. Something better. No, you've shown poor – awful judgment. I should choose.” He points behind them to the bookcases. “Read to me instead.”

Ikol must be from a more delicate culture, if even this tame account caused him discomfort. It might explain his slight statue, if his people are not warriors. Thor goes to the bookcase; dust clouds rise in the wake of the finger he runs across the spines. These might be no better, if Ikol is indeed easily shaken.

The books were gifts from Thor's birth celebrations, all legacies of Asgard's long, royal lines. Personal accounts of his ancestors, ancient anecdotes and memories, stories from which all current myths originate. Secret knowledge that Thor knows many, many beings have lost their lives attempting to obtain and to which Thor was made privy by reason of birthright. They are enchanted so that once given to him, no hand but his can lift them from the shelves nor turn the pages. Thor attempted to read one at random. Once. He'd fallen asleep barely a dozen pages in, and woken up with ink smudged on his cheek. They are filled with blood, these books. Ikol will likely abhor them. But Thor does not care to argue with insanity.

“Which would you like to hear?” he says.

Ikol chews on his lower lip. Tone devastated, he says, “I must choose only one? I cannot hear them all?”

_Hundreds_ of these books line Thor's shelves. “One to start with,” he decides.

So Ikol, after agonizing over his choices – personally, Thor would have closed his eyes and chosen the first one he tapped – Ikol chooses, and Thor returns to the bed, book in hand, and pats the space beside him. Ikol more or less sits – this time he is hovered a few inches _above_ the bed – and Thor reads. An account of Asgard's first architects. If he were alone, Thor would've already fallen backwards, hitting his head for the second time that night and the third since knowing Ikol. But Ikol is still at last, and riveted, and Thor does not even notice the sun rise. But he notices when Ikol stands and stretches his arms above his head, a blissful smile on his thin face.

“Are you bored?” Thor asks. Thor, oddly, is not.

“No! Not at all!” Ikol protests. “This was – extraordinary. But it is morning. I must return. That is – that is – the condition. I think. That is, if I stay past morning, I am – it is made clear I ought return.”

“Of course,” Thor says, surprised at the touch of disappointment he feels. He cannot recall when the night last passed so swiftly, so peacefully. “Will you return?”

Ikol chews on his lower lip again. “I doubt it. It was unwise to be here at all. It would be unthinkably unwise to be here again.”

Thor soon enough becomes very familiar with this response – he hears it every night, in fact, when he asks Ikol if Thor shall see him again. Every night Ikol slides through the entranceway and sidles next to Thor on the balcony, or lies beside Thor on the bed, or sits facing him cross-legged on the thick rugs by the fireplace, riveted by nearly every word Thor speaks. Either Ikol has learned the shape of Thor's rooms or else he has more control when calm, but he respects the boundaries of objects more with each visit. He stops beside the bed as if he could not walk through it, traces the shapes of objects as if he could hold them, leans against the balcony as if there is actually someone standing besides Thor and watching the sun rise with him.

Thor reads each night until his voice grows hoarse. Initially, Ikol listens in silence. Then – hesitantly, at first, and then with swiftly growing confidence – he offers to read chapters aloud while Thor turns the pages. Ikol never asks questions about Thor, although Thor sometimes thinks Ikol is desperate to, with how he sometimes glances sideways at Thor while Thor turns a page. Maybe he believes that Thor would demand answers in exchange. Thor would not – if Thor were dead, he is not sure he'd be keen to revisit a life forever lost to him either.

Ikol, Thor learns fairly definitively, is _not_ squeamish.

One evening, several months into their acquaintance, Thor says, “You should meet my companions. Fandral and Volstagg and Sif. And my brother! One day soon, I'll have a brother, and I insist you meet you him.”

“No,” Ikol says, waiting for Thor to turn the page in their current book. Thor does not. He can see Ikol's fingers twitch. He does that, Thor has concluded, when he's frustrated by his inability to touch.

“But I truly believe you would enjoy–”

“No. I could haunt anyone in all of the realms,” Ikol snaps. “ _Anyone_. I am _choosing_ to haunt you. Cease being so ungrateful.”

Thor chuckles; he almost forgets himself and tries to put a hand on Ikol's shoulder. Thor had not realized how often he seeks physical connections with his companions – a pat on the back, a hand on a shoulder, arms clasping in greeting or farewell – until spending so much time with a being that he cannot touch. Ikol's eyes narrow each time Thor slips and ends up with a hand through some part of Ikol's arm or chest, and Thor always swiftly pulls back and apologizes. Something of the glint in Ikol's eyes suggests he is not forgiven for reminding Ikol of his status.

“You realize, I have never wanted for company,” Thor says. “I do not regard myself as lonely. But I wonder now if I was unknowingly desperately so, and I made you to compensate. And you only actually exist in my mind.”

Ikol's lips curve in a peculiar smile. “Perhaps. To be honest, I am uncertain if you do not exist solely in mine.”

* * *

_Within the Mirror_

Everything is Thor. Everything. When did that happen? Thor is the sun by which Loki rises and sets, his focal point, Loki _dreams_ in that voice. Thor is everything. Loki could spent forever listening to Thor read. His illusion-self dissipates once it passes through Thor's doors. And Loki, on the bed, opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling and begins counting time until it will be night and he can dash to the sanctuary of Thor's chambers. He would leave earlier, stay later, but the gatekeeper has made rather clear the limits of Loki's roaming; his attention _burns_ when it is time, permitting Loki to leave when the Asgardians seem to retire for the day and demanding Loki return when they rise.

But Loki is bored of his books, even though the supply is seemingly endless. He's bored of his own voice. He's bored of this cage. He wants Thor. He wants–

No. Absolutely _not_. Loki cannot think that way. Loki is – he is gathering intelligence, that is all. And how lucky for him that he has found someone so foolish, carelessly spilling secrets at Loki's every whim. Yes, he is using Thor, that's it, he's not gotten _attached_. Certainly not to some _Asgardian_ whelp, with shining gold hair and shining blue eyes and a smile so charming and bright and warm Loki thinks his fingers would burn if he traced along those lips as he wants to. Of course not. That would be – would be–

No, Loki is _clever_. He could never have learned all he needs to know from his books, no matter how diverse and in depth they are. He'll learn all he can from that boy and then move on to exploring other aspects of this place. He is using Thor , using the gatekeeper's leniency, which reminds him – “Thank you, gatekeeper,” he must remember to say it out loud, otherwise the gatekeeper might think him ungrateful and try to _stop_ him from–

But the gatekeeper must not know what Loki is actually accomplishing. He must be fooled, too, into thinking Loki some lost, mad thing in search only of companionship. No tricks, no traps, no poison.

“Thank you, gatekeeper,” he says, each night, once he returns his focus to lying on the stupidly soft, hot bed, opening his eyes, and sets to memorizing all he's learned. He commits as best he can to memory the pages of maps showing every crevice of the palace. The stories of each of Yggdrasil's branches. Memorizes the history of the child-empress Hel in Niflheimr and of Sandraudiga in the red sand and Utgarda on his dais. Of treaties and trades and the second- and third- and fourth-hand accounts of the agreement at the long table. Even the silly fables and tales, the romances and the betrayals.

Who knows what will be important later? What fact will most impress Laufey-king?

But then he forgets, sometimes, and just starts memorizing Thor's voice, the cadence of its rise and fall, and the bright, boyish grin that splits Thor's face whenever Loki arrives. He memorizes each of Thor's comments and quips, and the curve of his toes curling in the blanket or rug they often sit upon, and–

No. No, what is wrong with him? Except – Loki's not saying these things out loud, is he? He feels his mouth; it's closed. No harm, then? To indulge? Besides, those are details as well. Thor must be at least a little important in this society to have access to the knowledge inside those books, though he cannot be _too_ important, to be stupid enough to so thoughtlessly divulge them.

He's been _compromised_. By an _Asgardian_. It's a good thing, is it not, that Loki is safe inside a cage, inside an enemy city; otherwise when Laufey-king finds out – and it will be when, Laufey-king knows _everything_ – he is going to _end_ Loki. Messily.

He can feel it, though. The pull beneath his skin, just like they'd said. This is the restlessness they'd spoken of, back home. This itch – to own and to be owned in return. There is no question in Loki's mind that Thor is _his_ , as unwise as it is, but to be Thor's in return? That would be – Loki would be unable to refuse. He wants to never leave Thor's chambers. His side. If only there was some way to tie them together, forever, without cost…

No. _No_. Loki ruthlessly clamps down his sorcery, forcing it inward. What is he if he does not have his sorcery? Laufey-king's bastard get. Small and strange. No, sorcery can be relied upon. People cannot be.

And Loki, that very evening, learns exactly why.

His decision to avoid Thor's chambers altogether, to go exploring as he ought have been doing all along, comes to nothing when he finds himself already en route to Thor's chambers. And, well, tomorrow is just as a good a day to start exploring elsewhere, is it not?

While Loki dithers, he hears a very family voice – the All-Father. Loki freezes and, forgetting he could just disappear, jumps behind a nearby column, heart hammering in his chest. It is the All-Father, talking to – _Thor_? Why is he at Thor's door? Why is he _talking_ to–

“Yes, father,” Thor says.

That would mean – did Laufey-king ever actually say a name? Loki can hear clearly Laufey-king cursing the damned All-Father and his wretched offspring, scoffing at the first son of Odin and any that might follow. But did he ever say the _name_?

The All-Father's step echo as he heads away, and Thor's chamber doors thunk closed.

Thor _Odinson_.

Loki's mind blanks.

* * *

_Outside the Mirror_

Sometimes, Ikol will trace his fingers over the books' illustrations of decorated warriors and jewel-encrusted women, his other hand tracing his own, unadorned flesh. Thor has not commented on the simple tunic and leggings Ikol wears. Ikol will trace his skin particularly – always the same curves around his wrists, the same lines around his neck. Unconsciously. Thor aches to think Ikol was not sent to the next realm with even the simplest adornments – adornments he obviously wore when living. Was this part of the terms of his sacrifice? That he was buried or burned with nothing but his own flesh?

Thor is thinking of Ikol when he corners Fandral after one of their training sessions and requests Fandral teach him how to conjure shining, elaborate jewelry. He expects Fandral to tease him and to cajole Thor for the name of the girl Thor wishes to please. Thor has told no one of Ikol; what if someone tries to take Ikol forever away? How lonelier Thor's evenings would become again. Ikol has done no harm. Nothing to deserve banishment from Thor's company.

But Fandral merely shifts uneasily, and with an obviously false cheer, tells Thor that Thor should have no need for such tricks to gain anyone's attention. No good-natured ribbing, no flashy demonstrations. It is not until later, when Thor pays attention to how Fandral's fingers linger on Sif's as he adjusts her grip on the bow, that Thor realizes.

“Fandral loves her,” Thor whispers to Volstagg.

Volstagg says, “He does.” He says it as if he already knows it for fact – as if Fandral himself had said so.

“Sif?” Thor asks, forcing brightness in his tone and knowing he's fallen fall short. He knows how things are. Knows Fandral and Volstagg confide in one another with a plainness they would not dare with Asgard's heir. Sadly, Volstagg shakes his head no. “Not yet?” Thor asks, hopeful for his friend.

Volstagg does not meet his eyes. “Not, I think, him.”

That evening after another lesson with his father, Thor curls hidden under his thick blankets. Not even the rain can soothe his roiling thoughts. He knows how thing are. How things will be. Under the blankets, Thor nevertheless knows exactly when Ikol has joined him, soundless as the ghost's approach was, because the knot in his stomach loosens.

“Why are you doing this?” Ikol snaps. It's been ages since Thor has heard that demanding tone. Thor shrugs even though Ikol cannot see.

“Doing what?”

“ _This_ ,” Ikol hisses. “Spending all of your evenings in this room. Talking to me. Humoring me. Is your life so empty that you require a ghost's company? So full of strange things that a ghost's company is so utterly unremarkable to you? Are you caught by some chains I cannot see which keep you here, keep you _obedient_ , when you could go anywhere? This is a trick, a trap. You mean to poison my mind! You are the Odinson!” Ikol's voice sounds like shocked betrayal.

Thor peeks over the covers. Ikol is flickering. Flustered. Whatever sanity Ikol has regained is fled.

“You did not know?”

“You did not say! I overhead and – it is true? You are the All-Father's get?”

Ikol somehow did not know. That would certainly explain why his company had been so refreshing. “It does not matter.”

“How could it not? I have been – and you – Thor Odinson!” Ikol spits the name like a curse.

“Oh. That. Yes, I imagine it does matter.” Thor sits up, running fingers through his hair. “But I was answering your other question. It is not about chains or loneliness or strangeness surrounding me. They do not _matter_. They are irrelevant. Nothing I do does. Not yet. Why not spend my evenings with you? It is better than any other alternative. It is…” Thor sighs. “Must we speak of this? You are here to escape your own misery. I want not to drag you into mine.”

“What misery?” Ikol snaps, lip curled. His teeth are sharper than Thor recalls.

Thor wishes Ikol would calm and they could simply read, as usual. But the tense lines of Ikol's form suggests he will be heard out. Thor thinks how to explain. “I was told, a few years before our acquaintance, that when my soul passes from this realm to the next, every Valkyrie will vie for the honor of escorting me to Valhalla.”

“Truly a miserable thought,” Ikol sneers. “Am I to feel sympathy for you?”

“But – Ikol, I have not _done_ anything.” The words come suddenly to Thor, a flood of thoughts that twist in his mind and he's never before dared voice. “I spend my days waiting to be the warrior everyone already believes me to be. Every word, every lesson, every act, is not for my benefit. It is for the benefit of who I am to be. Do you see? It does not _matter_. No one will remember me. Remember Thor-the-boy.”

Thor pictures his father's father, burned to ash while seeking to quell the civil war on fiery Múspellsheimr. Thor's father, with barely two centuries to call his own, had not the time to shed a tear before he'd been seated at the negotiation tables; his advisors had handled the talks, but if any of the gathered Muspelmegir lords had been tempted to forget the folly of continuing to treat an All-Father's grave as a battleground, they need only have glanced at the child-king seated before them. Odin All-Father, as far as the realms are concerned, did not exist until that precise moment. Frigga did not exist until that same afternoon, when she'd been brought to the palace and fitted for her wedding garments.

“He will have no ballads,” Thor continues. “He will have no praises. He will, if he is at all recalled, just be what – _became_ – Thor. If I am obedient, it is only that neglect of my duties will mean I will be ill-equipped to wear my own reputation. Even my companions follow my word as if it were given by who I am to be. Even I forget. Is that strange? I will be allowed to travel, to act freely, to learn to be who I am only once I am already he. It is as if…”

“You are waiting for your use,” Ikol says quietly.

“Yes! So you understand what I mean? Nothing Thor-the-boy does matters.”

Ikol sits down beside Thor. Any anger seems to have drained from him. “You fear you will be unworthy of your name?”

“No – Ikol, I _will_ be worthy. I know it to my marrow. Every corner of the realms will know the name Thor Odinson, and the name will be worthy of knowing. But that is not yet my name. Do you see?”

Ikol smiles his half-tilted smile. “Are you sure you have that long to wait? You sound as if you wasted no time donning such a man's arrogance. No, it is good,” he says, before Thor can defend himself. “What use is modesty? I prefer that you are without. A king's son,” he muses. “Tell me of your father. Is he a good king?”

“He is. Wise and just,” Thor says.

“A kind king?” Ikol asks, tone strange.

“No,” Thor answers honestly, thinking particularly of the cold ruthlessness with which he father conducts their lessons in the tower. “But do you understand, Ikol? Why not spend my evenings lazily? My time with you?”

“Hmmm,” Ikol says. He studies Thor, seems to see past Thor's skin. When Thor is about to offer they leave this subject behind and read, Ikol says, “I want an emerald-crested owl. You're to fetch me one. Now.”

Did Thor miss some part of this conversation? Usually Thor heeds Ikol's every word. “What?”

“An emerald-crested owl,” Ikol repeats, as if that is the part of the order which gave Thor pause. “A bird. They are so large,” Ikol holds out his hands to demonstrate, “with crested points and they glitter every shade of green you can imagine in the light. They are found only on Vanaheimr. I desire one.” When Thor only blinks, Ikol says impatiently, “What part of this gives you trouble? I cannot spell out this task more plainly.”

Thor shakes his head. “One day, perhaps. Were you not listening? I cannot–”

“Did I ask for excuses? I am not from here – I do not know of this Thor-who-will-be. I do not particularly care for the sound of him. I want no gifts from him. I know _you_. I want a gift from _you_. Now get me my owl.”

He is going to, Thor realizes, startled. He is going to because Ikol is asking it of him, and Thor mourns for the lonely, insane ghost. The how seems irrelevant. “Could you learn? To tolerate the Thor I will be?”

Ikol sniffs. “If he is not intolerable, I suppose. And if he takes proper care of the owl you fetch me.”

Prepared to leave this moment, Thor throws off his blankets and makes to rise, but he freezes at Ikol's panicked, “Wait!” Ikol worries at his tunic and won't meet Thor's eyes. “I did not mean – not now. In the morning.” _After I must leave_ , Thor hears, though Ikol does not say the words.

“Of course,” Thor says, and smiling, heart light, Thor retrieves their current book and turns to the correct page.

It is like remembering how to be. The following morning, Thor says to Fandral and Volstagg, “We head for Vanaheimr this day to fetch an owl.” To which Volstagg simply asks if they should leave straight away, and Fandral simply requests Lady Sif join them. Neither asks whether they'd permission for the journey – the answer would not have affected theirs.

Thor says to Radulf, “Our session today is cancelled.” To which Radulf simply shrugs and says, “I have better ways to squander my time any how.”

And Thor, though he has a half dozen speeches on his tongue, need say nothing to Heimdall. Heimdall simply stands aside at Thor's approach and wishes them good hunting.

“Why?” Thor asks. Always before Heimdall has blocked his path.

“Because you go not for yourself,” Heimdall says.

His companions cast him speculative looks, which Thor studiously ignores. Once they are standing inside the Bifröst chamber, Sif asks, “You three travel often?”

“Yes,” Fandral says.

“Not _often_ ,” Thor hedges.

“This occasion would be the first,” Volstagg says.

Sif's expression barely has time to turn alarmed before they are dragged forward and to a realm that Thor has only known from books – to a realm so green, so vast, that Idunn's forest would be a mere garden beside it. Thor explains their mission, and though his companions do not question him, they shift uneasily when a Vanir trader advises they seek any creature but that one.

“Why not?” Thor asks. This is his first true, pure task. He cannot return with anything but what Ikol specified!

“We pushed them back deep into the Sanngridr Forest ages ago. They breathe poison when they're startled,” the trader says. “And you've never met a creature more easily startled.”

Ikol, Thor has learned, has a particular sense of humor.

“Where is this forest?” he asks.

“Oh, you don't want to go there either, a bunch of children like yourselves. You go to that forest, and poison is going to be your least worry.”

Sif turns to him. “This is your purpose? This owl?”

“It is,” Thor says. But can he ask this of his companions – his friends? Yes, they'd been prepared to fight all of Jötunheimr beside him, Thor knows. But that had been out of necessity.

While Thor second-guesses himself, his companions decide without him.

“Then we head to the forest,” Sif says, and Fandral and Volstagg nod in resolute agreement. She demands of the trader, “Tell us all you know of the forest and of this owl.”

That evening, hours and hours and hours later, they arrive in the dining hall filthy, dirt in their hair and scratches along their skin and garments torn, Fandral with a limp and Sif holding one arm at an awkward angle, all four flushed in victory.

Thor's mother raises an eyebrow before turning to Idunn; she whispers something into Idunn's ear, and Idunn flashes Thor her secret, mad smile. Thor's father nods, once, and returns to his advisers seated beside him. Thor sweeps past the royal table to sit instead with his companions. While they recount their tale in loud voices, the gathered warriors thump their backs and raise glasses – patronizing, at first, and then with true respect when Thor whistles and two poisonous owls fly in through the windows and land on either of his shoulders.

They talk over one another in their excitement – Fandral tells of the dangerous mountain path to reach the forest, and Volstagg how he spoke to local boys learning of a whistle that imitates the owls' call, and how Fandral, Volstagg, and Sif fought off various predators for hours while Thor whistled and coaxed the owls to his shoulders. Though Sif's ears turn red, she keeps her chin high as some of the warriors study her appraisingly.

But for all of the thrill of this moment, Thor excuses himself at the first opportunity to rush to his chambers and pace, waiting for his ghost, with the owls still perched contentedly on his shoulders.

Ikol arrives at his usual hour, but he halts, dumbfounded, in the entranceway.

Thor grins and scratches at one of the owl's necks; it hoots softly, pleased.

Ikol inches forward, eyes fixed on the owls. “They are the loveliest things I have ever seen,” he breathes. Standing before Thor, he raises careful hands to trace the owls' shapes, expression reverent. One owl tries to nip at his fingers, and its feathers puff out in frustration when its beak passes through without meeting flesh. It hoots, annoyed, and Ikol laughs in delight, teasing the birds and circling Thor to study them from every angle.

They could poison Thor at any moment, but there is only calm in Thor's belly. It seems that beautiful, poisonous creatures have an affinity for him, and Thor does not fear for himself. “You knew they were poisonous?”

“I knew,” Ikol says, beginning to mimic the owls' calls and grinning each time an owl calls back.

“You were so certain I was not being sent to my death?”

“Not particularly,” Ikol says. He wiggles his fingers for the owls to nip at. “I was certain I wanted an owl. And behold: Here I have two.”

“What if I'd died?” Thor asks. Would Ikol have returned to his chambers every night, waiting for Thor, who would never return? Would he have found a way to reunite with Thor in the afterlife?

Ikol only shrugs a shoulder. “Will they be here? Whenever I visit?”

“If you'd like,” Thor says. He places a hand to his chest, which feels suddenly too tight, as Ikol circles and circles, delighting in his gift.

Thor wants to give Ikol more gifts. Countless more. Be the only cause of that delight. A lifetime of gifts would not be sufficient to repay what Ikol has given him this day.

“There is another gift,” he blurts. His heart thumps absurdly over-loud in his ears. He whistles, and the owls take flight, circling the room before settling on the mantle above the fireplace.

“Another?” Ikol says, interested only in the owls' flight. “I doubt one exists that I would prefer to this. But fine. What is it?”

“You mustn't – you must come to the balcony and see. This is – it is something private. Something I have never shared with another. Come to the balcony. Please?”

Ikol, walking backwards so he needn't lose sight of his owls, follows Thor to the balcony.

Thor's throat feels closed, his lungs empty of air. What if Ikol does not understand what it means that Thor wishes to share this? What does it mean that Thor _would_ share this?

Once Ikol is standing beside him and reluctantly paying him mind, Thor turns to stare at Ikol. His ghost. He asks, “Where is your death marker?”

Now Ikol is the one staring at him. “Death marker?”

“Is that not the custom of the Vanir? They inter their dead to the ground and honor the grave with a marble marker. I thought – the owls. I know you wish not to speak of it, but were you of Vanaheimr when you lived?”

Eyes narrowed, suspicious, Ikol says, “If I have a death marker, of what purpose would its location be to you?”

Thor swallows. “I could –” _kneel before it and grieve, that I was too late to know the feel of your palm against mine_ – “burn you favors. My people burn our dead along with their prized possessions and gifts. Whatever is burned our dead possess in the next realm. Perhaps – perhaps if I found your death site, I could burn – books, and puzzles – weapons, anything you desire, and you would have them to occupy your time when you are not with me. These gifts cannot be taken from you by any other being, living or dead, once gifted to you in this way. May I do this for you?”

Ikol's eyes are wide. “I – I have no death marker, Thor. Nor any grave. My body is hidden where none will ever, ever find it.”

Unacceptable. Thor cannot – that Ikol is _here_ and Thor cannot touch him, cannot ever _ever_ have him in any true sense, is unbearable enough. No – Thor will find a way.

Thor says, “Watch.” He reaches into the recesses inside of himself and calls to mind thoughts of grey skies and thick, billowing clouds and the crack of thunder. He thinks of the wind rattling the windows, and the shimmer and sweet smell of rainfall, and beautifully deadly points of lightening.

An endless pause, then,

_Oh_ , Thor thinks, allowing himself a single deep, sweet breath. _It is this easy?_

Ikol's fingers tap soundlessly at the balcony, and he glances continually behind him, impatient to return. He says, “Well? What is my gift?”

Faintly, Thor says, “The rain.”

His fingers still tapping, Ikol he says, sounding slightly concerned, as if he worries Thor has not noticed, “The sky is clear.”

This is how it would happen. This is how it _could_ happen. Thor can almost feel them at his fingertips, the threads that connect him to the elements – can feel them strain out of his reach, begin to hang uselessly limp at his side. How beautiful, and how deadly, and Thor could be speaking of either the elements at his fingertips or this ghost by his side; and his father's voice whispers in his ear _What would you choose?_ and the gods help him Thor chooses.

Blinking back the hint of sudden tears, Thor holds up one hand, and after studying him for a long while Loki seems to understand. He lifts one of his own and hovers it just so, that their hands are not-touching from fingertips to palm. Then Thor tilts his hand and carefully threads his fingers through Ikol's, respecting the insubstantial boundary of Ikol's skin so as not to shatter the illusion. Ikol, this time without hesitation, curls his own fingers down.

“I will find you, Ikol.” Thor says this like it is fact, because if he wishes something to be a fact, he will make it so.

The line between Thor-the-boy and the warrior-prince-to-be begins to blur.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Revised chapter posted August 2014.**

_Outside the Mirror_

Once Thor and his warriors three have traveled every of Vanaheimr's cities searching for local challenges and fine crafts, they head next to the Dwarves at Nidavellir and then to the Elves at Álfheimr and to the mer-folk at Njörd's underwater civilization. Thor's chambers become lined with trinkets and puzzles, candles and knives, tapestries and gleaming jewels and decorated masks and woodcut carvings.

Thor brings Ikol long, glittering snakes and enormous, creeping spiders and colorful fish in tall vases and dozens upon dozens of owls. He has a handful of servants whose only task is to care for Thor's ever-growing menagerie. And at every city, every village, every tavern, Thor inquires discretely, when his companions are otherwise engaged, of a pale boy with dark hair and green eyes, sacrificed to spare his kin.

When Ikol demands a lute, a whim as abrupt as any other, Thor spends ages tracking down the perfect one.

After finally finding it, he bounds into his chambers and comes to a breathless halt before Ikol. His ghost is lounging on the floor and making faces at the snakes slithering through the terrarium, which wraps around the walls. He sits up at Thor's entrance, and though his expression is bored when he turns to Thor, Thor had seen the flash of delight briefly reflected in the terrarium glass.

“I've a present,” Thor announces, holding aloft a large wrapped box. He settles beside Ikol, placing the box in front of him.

Ikol's legs jiggle, impatient. “Open it,” he says.

“Say please.”

“Open it now!”

“Say pretty please and that you missed me terribly.”

“Oh,” Ikol says, with frankly poorly feigned disinterest. Usually he manages better, or at least enough to give Thor a moment's doubt. “Were you away? I had not noticed.”

Grinning, Thor slaps Ikol's back good-naturedly, and he does not even have to look to know precisely when to still his hand so as not to pass through Ikol's insubstantial form. He rips off the wrapping and, with a flourish, holds out the box so that Ikol can see inside. Ikol tilts his head one way and then the other.

“What is it?”

Thor's shoulder's fall. “What you wanted!” he says, though now he's unsure. “A lute. Isn't it?”

Ikol gestures for him to hold up the stringed instrument so he can better see. “Lutes are crystal,” Ikol says.

“They are not! They are wood.”

“They are?” Ikol sounds genuinely surprised.

“I didn't know they could be otherwise,” Thor says. His excitement drains, and he begins to tuck the lute away.

“Wait,” Ikol says. He leans closer to study it. “I _suppose_ it will suffice,” he says after a long pause. “I believe. I have never heard of an instrument made of tree. We'll see how it sounds. Play for me.” He turns to face Thor, expectant.

Thor blinks. “I know not how.”

With unexpected patience, Ikol directs him how to hold the instrument and how to pluck the strings, and then he says, “I will hum, and then you will mimic me.” The melody is unfamiliar and yet reminiscent of Idunn's mad humming – that feeling of antiquity, of an epic story forgotten, which tightens Thor's chest with sudden emotion.

“Why this song?” Thor asks. “Why this instrument?”

“Why so many questions? Do as I tell you to!” Ikol insists.

“Ikol–”

“I am so lonely!” Ikol bursts out, like he had not meant to. He stares intently into Thor's eyes. He asks, “Are you not?”

Not when you are near, Thor thinks but does not say. He thinks Ikol knows the answer regardless.

It is raining outside. The sky Thor's favorite shade of grey. And Ikol places two fingers beneath the lute, lax in Thor's grip, urging Thor to lift it and resume playing. Easily Thor acquiesces, and Ikol says, “If there is this song – this harmony – between us, we need never know loneliness again.”

So Thor practices. He is abysmal, fingers clumsy and the notes disjointed. But Ikol helps him to improve – insists on it, really – and one evening Ikol sings softly alongside Thor's halting melody, and there is a moment, beautiful, when Thor does not care what a fool he must look and sound and there is only the peace settling in his limbs and the answering peace in Ikol's soft expression.

A moment of profound connection.

And the connection does not dissipate over the days – will not dissipate, Thor will find, over the months and years and centuries to come, even on the days he wishes it would. It never lessens but is a steady, warm presence in his heart and his mind no matter the distance separating him and his ghost.

The change Ikol has wrought in Thor – to Thor's very _core_ – is so intimate, it takes him by surprise that so many make note of it.

“What clear skies we've had lately,” his companions sometimes comment, to which Thor just smiles and resolutely does not think about choices in a tower, even when his companions' queries become more pointed.

“What interesting tastes you've developed,” his mother now sometimes says, to which Thor answers, “It is so awful that I wish to be more cultured?”

“How strange you would know this already,” Radulf sometimes muses, whenever Thor already knows a subject from his readings with Ikol or his adventures with his companions. To this Thor says, “I suppose you are a better tutor than anyone could've guessed.”

“Congratulations,” Idunn tells him as they pass in the halls one day, apropos of nothing, but that is rather par for the forest-keeper. Thor, lighthearted, simply smiles and says a polite thank you in return.

But Thor does not explain. Not to anyone. Ikol is _his_ secret.

Ikol delights in every gift, studying its every angle and demanding to know every detail of the tale of how it came to be added to his possessions. He sulks when Thor's adventures begin spanning days or weeks, and Thor glows with the thought that Ikol misses his presence as desperately as Thor misses his. And still they read through the books on Thor's shelves.

He even sits through and does not roll his eyes at Thor's excitement at the birth of his younger brother Baldur, whom Thor adored at first sight. Adored before then, really. Ikol won't see Baldur and still will not entertain the slightest suggestion of spending time in any but Thor's company. Thor thinks eventually he can wear Ikol down on this topic, but even if he cannot, well – there is, perhaps, a part of Thor that would be pleased at never having to share Ikol at all.

Thor could have lived this life forever, he wagers.

Adventures during the day – Thor and his companions grow bolder and more creative, and as their shoulders begin to broaden and their arms wield heavier weapons with increasing skill, Heimdall allows them passage to ever more dangerous locales.

Ikol's company during the evening – reading and conversing about nothing and everything and watching his ghost hoard greedily over his swiftly expanding collection of exotic gifts.

So, of course, everything changes.

* * *

_Within the Mirror_

For the first time in years and years and years, the mirror shimmers and Loki's reflection melts away and in its place is the doorway to the weapons vault. The All-Father stands before him, one hand on the mirror frame. The king appears no different – as gray and old and horrible as Loki recalls. Loki must look different to the All-Father's eyes – a little taller, though not yet the height he'll one day be. Sharper around the edges. Brittle.

He would be broken to pieces and not merely brittle if not for the sweet, distance melody that hums in his heart and his mind and allows him to keep tight hold of the last vestiges of his sanity. He still cannot quite believe it had worked.

Ignoring the All-Father, Loki creeps closer and presses his hands to the mirror surface. He greedily devours the colors of the vault. So different, seen through his own eyes – not the same distance as when seen through a shade. A shade's sight is itself shaded.

Yes?

Yes.

Loki has no wits to him – scattered and fled.

He's waited, hasn't he? Waited and waited and waited for what must be twenty lifetimes, except it has not been even a fraction of one. He has placed it far from his mind, endeavored not to count the days – the seconds – focused instead on the gatekeeper's attention and the Odinson's voice and his hoard of books and trinkets, but he cannot – not in the All-Father's presence. Every second of his captivity seeks suddenly in this one moment to take its toll.

The All-Father is speaking. He should not be, because Loki is certainly not listening. Cannot. He is underwater and the pressure has closed his ears. He hears just the rhythm, the rise and fall of syllables, the impression of meaning but not the comprehension of it.

When did Loki sit?

When did the All-Father lower himself to be seated opposite him, nothing but the not-mirror between them?

Loki is calming, slowly soothed. The distant, sweet hum is growing in volume and encasing him in a welcome chill that reminds him of his home. Why?

The rhythm of the All-Father's voice. It matches the Odinson's. The reminder of the blood between Loki's Thor and the hated All-Father snaps him to attention.

“Say again,” he says.

“Say what again?” the All-Father asks, patience in his tone.

“All of it. I was not listening,” Loki says.

The All-Father accepts this gracefully. “I have a task for you this day. A simple one and small, but one to which you are uniquely suited. But first I must ascertain whether what I ask of you is indeed something of which you are capable.”

His use. The All-Father has found one – finally and so soon both. He's waited and waited and waited. Would knowing be better than not knowing? Something simple. Not what Loki has expected. Something horrible, yes, to make Loki yearn for the days of isolated madness that preceded it. Something terrible, cruel – or dangerous. Mayhaps something demeaning. Loki has had so much time to wonder, and in that time has wondered so many possibilities. Of all of them, horrible and terrible and cruel and demeaning, always Loki has secretly wondered–

Something great.

The Odinson is not the only one who knows to his marrow he is meant for great things and knows equally he will be worthy of them.

“I stopped listening again,” Loki says when he realizes the All-Father has kept speaking while Loki's mind wandered and he stared at – his hand? How long has he been staring at his own hand, methodically curling and uncurling his fingers?

“Did you stop once more?” the All-Father asks.

“Yes,” Loki admits. His ears are unwilling to cooperate. He's trying to listen, truly, if for no other reason than to finally know. And then whatever it is he'll tell the All-Father he is not capable, he has not whatever skill the All-Father seeks, and then–

“Again? Shall I start over?”

Is his patience endless? No irritation in his voice or expression. “Yes,” Loki says.

The All-Father had known. Known what a wreck Loki would be and had been prepared. He'd _known_. But Loki – Loki – Loki had planned on blindsiding the half-blind king. He's been keeping his mind sharp, hasn't he? His memory keen, recounting all to the gatekeeper. Learning from and conversing with the Odinson. His body fed and fueled. Devouring whatever knowledge the books in this cage grant him.

But it's different. His ravings to the gatekeeper must have been barely coherent ruminations, his nightly visits to the Odinson as beautiful and nonsensical and fleeting as dreams. This is real, though. This is truth. This is once more existing, and Loki is as insubstantial as the ghost he has been pretending to be.

He's stopped listening again, hasn't he?

“Start over,” he whispers.

It takes a dozen tellings before Loki begins to comprehend and a dozen more before he recalls how conversations work when in your true body, how the ears and mind cooperate to participate. And the All-Father's patience is unwavering.

A simple enough task.

Some dispute between Elvish lords. Tempers escalated and clashed, violence erupted, blood shed, the All-Father's mediation requested. The All-Father's account is dull and matter-of-fact – not because he's been asked to repeat it a dozen times, Loki thinks, but because he's been called upon to mediate such disputes thousands.

Both lords found in the wrong, but one people wronged more in the quarrel – his sons slain, and as is their custom, he's demanded equal reparation. His enemy's son beheaded. Common enough, but one catch – a debt the All-Father owes from long ago. The lord called upon the All-Father in secret and begged for his son to be spared and all debt between them so repaid.

“That trick you attempted, concealing yourself from Muninn. If it had been any eyes but Muninn's and mine, it would have gone unnoticed. How fine is your control of it?” the All-Father asks. The All-Father retells it seven times before Loki's mind catches up – the battle on Jötunheimr, Loki slipping away, unseen, to sleep while a shade remained crouched and alert on that tall spire.

“Fine,” Loki says, thinking of his secret visits to the Odinson, which sets his mind wandering again, so it is much later that he remembers he had been supposed to say the opposite.

A simple enough task – would not take a day.

Loki in the son's pace, an audience with the warring lords. Loki could be confirmed as solid, his head placed on the block, and just as the All-Father lowers the blade, Loki would slip away, leaving a beheaded shade. The son would live his life as an Asgardian, his appearance altered forever through an enchantment – the All-Father knows of one which lasts for ever and ever and which requires a shapeshifter's blood. Simple – the one lord would receive his reparations, the other the knowledge his son's life was spared, and the All-Father a sworn oath from each that they should seek peace between them.

In the confusion that is Loki's mind, one thought is loud – clear and coherent: _This is beneath me._

“Why wait?” Loki asks. If the All-Father has already said, he's missed the words. “Any moment after I'm confirmed as solid. Why not have me slip away long before you behead the shade?”

The All-Father considers him. He says, “I have sons as well. Sons very dear to me. My second-born is yet a babe, but my firstborn is not far from your age.” Why tell him that unless – is it possible? Is this why the All-Father is being patient and kind – does he somehow _not know_? Loki bites his tongue not to blurt out how very aware of the All-Father's firstborn he is. “If our fates were reversed, if Jötunheimr that long ago day found triumph, what would Laufey have done to my firstborn son?”

“Killed him, cleanly and swiftly,” Loki answers, though he is uneasy – how clearly he can see Thor dead by Laufey-king's hand. How clearly he can see himself, watching and cheering.

“You believe so?”

Of course. That is how Laufey-king deals with those loathsome to him. With enemies. Except…this wouldn't have been just any enemy. This would have been the _All-Father's son_. The mental image of that day becomes more gruesome, the time between capture and death more demeaning and horrifying and stretched for longer, each second further Loki contemplates what his father-king would have done. “Yes,” he says firmly, regardless.

The All-Father nods slowly. “I see. I flatter myself, that I am not so cruel as he. And I admit this to you: I second-guess myself on the wisdom of keeping you here in abeyance. When you are in that form and waiting for the blade to strike, it will be your choice.”

“What choice?” Is Loki's mind still skipping parts of the conversation?

“Whether you slip away and leave a shade, as you call it, to take the fall. Or whether you simply…do not.”

It takes Loki far too long to follow the All-Father's point, but when he does…oh. The All-Father is never letting him leave. Not alive. Not ever ever. It had been too late from the beginning, hadn't it? The All-Father could never have persuaded Loki to his side. So what is left for him? Little tasks – little tricks, whenever the All-Father needs – less because the All-Father cannot find other sorcerers, other shapeshifters. More difficult to find such that has no choice but to keep his secrets. Forever calling upon Loki and never a debt in return. And the more Loki knows, the less the chance he could ever petition for a kinder fate.

“I truly regret that I did not find you when you were younger. Perhaps…” The All-Father sighs and does not finish the thought, but even if he had Loki is once more no longer listening.

* * *

_Álfheimr_

Hogun is not _hiding_ behind his lord father's cloak – he is just standing behind him and happens fortuitously to be concealed behind his father's imposing figure. Concealed particularly from the vicious glare brimming with bloody promise the Lord Líndal keeps sending him each time Hogun peeks around. Concealed from sight, that is. It would take more to shelter him from the vitriol Líndal is spewing, each demand for Hogun's imminent execution bloodier and crueler. Hogun's lord father stands silent before Líndal's tirade, but what could he say? Custom is clear – what justice _demands_ is clear – and if his father refuses to shame himself by bargaining for leniency then Hogun will do no less.

He peeks around again, fixated by Elanessë and Elladan dead at Líndal's feet. Or, that is, what was found of them during the relative calm after the All-Father's herald arrived demanding a cease-war and for the warring lords to meet in this town hall to negotiate an armistice when the All-Father himself arrives.

That will be Hogun, soon enough. A – _cleaner_ – death likely awaits him, but a death is a death and Hogun will be – dead.

_I did not kill them._ Everyone in this hall knows he did not. Hogun did not even _know them_. Their respective countries barely traded with one another, barely acknowledged that the same wicked forest is all that separates their borders. But that was the problem, wasn't it? They would not ever meet to discuss the true lines of their territories, only stewed in the certainty that the other had crossed them.

It is odd to Hogun that Líndal's sons even fought. Older than Hogun though none of them yet adults, but were they of equal age still Hogun would not have borne arms as they did. What good is a leader dead before the battle finishes? Hogun has been trained well to defend himself if needed, but trained equally that it is no favor to those he will one day rule to fight beside them. Lord Líndal must have different convictions, based on how he incessantly calls Hogun and his father both cowards. Hogun's father likely thinks Líndal has gotten exactly the recompense he deserves for so casually allowing his sons to wade into danger. Hogun thinks so.

That is – he peeks around and sees again those gruesome remains – maybe. Do any deserve that?

Lord Líndal falls silent at the All-Father’s entrance, of course. That is likely the only source of agreement between Hogun's father and Líndal – that Álfheimr's disputes do not by deed or word of mouth leave her soil or be left exposed to those not born to her. The All-Father is exception, though grudgingly recognized. He listens to Hogun's father and Líndal each explain with sudden civility their dispute – and how meaningless it sounds, laid out like that, just a few stretches of land barely large enough to be even a fraction of their country's respective total sizes – and then invites each into an adjacent antechamber for a private word.

After, the All-Father disappears into the chamber for private reflection. It is not brief, and when he emerges, he gives not judgment but commands instead a moment to speak with Hogun. Though Hogun's father and Líndal appear equally puzzled, the All-Father's commands are neither questioned nor refused.

“Listen carefully to me, child,” the All-Father says once they are sequestered. “Your father has bargained for your life – wishes for you the opportunity for a long life of accomplishment and happiness. Yet there is no such future for you here. I am granting your father's request, and I shall arrange that you would with new name and new appearance begin anew on Asgard. There will be no returning. Your father has accepted these terms. Will you?”

Hogun rather wishes he still stood safe behind his father's cloak. “But Lord Líndal–”

“Will be given your execution, although it will not be your death he witnesses.”

True grief had wavered beneath Líndal's rage. True loss. “Then it would not be true justice,” Hogun says, although the words are heavy and halting.

“You argue for your own execution?” There is no judgment in the All-Father, only keen, solemn attention.

“I argue for what is right,” Hogun says. He will not be the cause of his father compromising what they both know to be just.

“I will tell you that which was long ago told to me, and never have I witnessed this truth disproved. Though a man's son may be the instrument of recompense, that son is incidental to it.” The All-Father places a heavy hand on Hogun's shoulder. “Were your execution to take place, it is not your face Lord Líndal would be watching. Now I ask again: Will you agree?”

Quietly, Hogun says, “I will honor my father's wish.”

The All-Father nods, and then he places his hand seemingly against air. A strange rift shimmers into sight, but the All-Father does not step immediately through. Instead, he says with abrupt nonchalance, “Your father in our past correspondence has ever spoken highly of you, of the good, level head on your shoulders. My own son – though his heart is good, I ofttimes fret that he hasn't a head on his shoulders at all. Perhaps, in your new beginning in my court, you might keep eye on him when I cannot.”

This is not a suggestion, and Hogun does not dare mistake it for one. “I will, lord,” Hogun says.

The All-Father says, “Good. Now step through and wait for me. Go nowhere and touch nothing.”

The rift takes him to a marbled vault lined with glittering weapons. No one else. Hogun, curious, begins to explore the room, trying without much success to keep his footsteps from echoing and potentially drawing attention. When he reaches an immense mirror frame he stands before it, expecting of course his reflection – and freezes, blank with horror, when he is instead face to face with a Jötun. The Jötun sneers at him but makes no move, and as Hogun slowly calms he realizes the Jötun likely cannot – is stayed somehow by the frame. Maybe. Surely the All-Father would not spare him one execution only to be killed here instead?

No. The Jötun is young, like him. Stuck in that between-time separating childhood from adulthood. He's, Hogun thinks with a start, frightened too. He look like his world has also been taken away; that he too has been stripped to naked bone.

He is Hogun's reflection, after all.

And when the All-Father returns and the boy with barely a blink reshapes himself into Hogun's exact likeness down to the shape of his ears, and steps forward in Hogun's exact gait, Hogun thinks that the only aspect the Jötun did not have to borrow was the hollowness in his expression.

* * *

Hogun's form fits strangely. Loki has so far never encountered a form he cannot immediately and perfectly assume, but some fit him more naturally than others. He needs only watch a form briefly to know the nuances of how it ought move. Marching forward in Hogun's commanding gait, the All-Father beside him, Loki kept his borrowed expression as passive as the boy's had been during their brief meeting. Loki does not meet the gaze of any in the gathered crowd in the small antechamber. does not pay mind to the words the All-Father has with each of the lords.

He allows himself to be docilely lowered to the execution block, kneels forward, and closes his eyes. The All-Father's speech passes over him, unmarked save for the rhythm.

Loki does not wish to die, but that is not what starts his heart pounding furiously in his ears as he hears the All-Father's blade rise and begin to fall.

It is the thought of the Odinson. It is the hum in his heart. It is knowing that there would never be any farewell between them. And Thor, though he might spend the rest of his centuries searching, would never find Loki's death marker.

For an endless moment, Loki's control on his sorcery _wavers_. He can feel it like pulling strings, eager to abandon him and find – and find the Odinson, and wrap around him and smother him until he is hidden from any sight but Loki's. The blade lowers seemingly glacier-slow, and Loki's heart thuds in his ears, and – and for a frightening heartbeat he cannot seem to drudge up the sorcery to _form_ a shade and for an even more frightening heartbeat he does not care, and–

_No_.

Not even to Thor.

The blade lowers and lowers and Loki wrenches his sorcery back beneath his skin. The blade lowers and lowers, grazes his neck, and Loki throws himself unseen to the side, hands over his mouth to stifle his gasps – less than a moment later and the All-Father's blade slices through the shade's neck. The shade's head rolls over, blank eyes staring at Loki.

Funny, that the All-Father had never asked if Loki knows what a beheading looks like, how the body behaves. Beheading was not Laufey-king's favored means of execution, but it was hardly his least favored, either. Loki knows how the body collapses, slack, how the head's features twist and twitch before the flesh understands the mind is gone and stills, frozen, turned stiff and dead.

Loki's heart pounding, he feels a slow trickle of blood down the back of his neck. No one noticed Loki, of course, all focused on the dead shade, which Loki forces himself to concentrate on maintaining – all but the All-Father, who glances briefly at Loki, weariness in his eyes. He'd hoped Loki would choose differently, and Loki cannot say for certain for whose benefit he'd hoped.

More meaningless words pass over Loki's head as his heart continues to pound absurdly. He sees what must be Hogun's father, face drawn in stoic grief. He does not know, Loki realizes. He does not know what the All-Father's done. The All-Father must've needed the honest reaction, and Hogun's sire will be told later. Or will he be told at all?

The lords eventually filter out – as part of the agreement, Hogun's father would not be given his son's corpse to honor – and once it's certain there are no witnesses the All-Father commands him to dissolve the shade and follow him. The All-Father leads Loki back to the vault where the real Hogun still waits.

The other boy frowns when Loki reveals himself, still wearing the foreign form, and his frown deepens when Loki returns to his Jötun-form. He says, “I don't understand,” and the All-Father explains; at explanation of how Loki can create a shade, he turns deathly pale. “Forest spirit,” the boy gasps, which Loki does not follow, nor the All-Father's assurance that Loki is no such thing. Then the All-Father explains the ritual that will alter Hogun's form forever, so that he might live out his days in Asgard.

“What if I chose differently?” Loki asks, just as the All-Father turns to leave, his hand on the other boy's shoulder. “How would you have done this ritual then?”

“I would have found a different means,” the All-Father answers. It is an answer Loki will spend a long time turning over in his mind.

* * *

_Outside the Mirror_

Thor rocks Baldur in his arms at the dining table, making faces while Baldur tugs delightedly at his hair and beaming as Sif and Volstagg beside him coo and wiggle their figures at his brother.

Thor _adores_ Baldur. Baldur is small, and pudgy, and does little more than eat, sleep, and stare at Thor in wide-eyed adoration. Thor constantly offers to watch him. He's dragged his little brother to his tutoring sessions – Radulf is pleased with the excuse new ears present to retell his favorite stories, and Thor is pleased with the excuse to listen to stories rather than learn dreary facts. He's dragged Baldur to his training sessions – pushing Baldur into Branthoc's arms, and Branthoc may huff but Thor has seen him murmuring to Baldur as the trainer circles Thor and his training partners and shouts at them about form and strategy. He _would_ drag Baldur on his adventures with his companions, but Heimdall won't open the Bifröst to them if he attempts to carry Baldur along – not even when they'd tried hiding Baldur under the curtain of Sif's long, golden hair.

A new face seats himself across from Thor at the table, and Thor looks up, surprised. At his father's urging Thor has learned his people's faces, even if he still has difficulty with names, but this face is definitely unfamiliar and not, Thor thinks, of Asgard.

He has taken Fandral's seat. Silently, and just as silently he piles his plate with food and begins eating without acknowledging anyone around him.

“You sit at my place,” Fandral says, arriving a few steps behind the stranger.

The stranger shrugs.

“What is your name?” Thor demands, frowning. The men around him shift. Waiting. They will take offense in equal measure to that which Thor displays.

The stranger glances up. “Giselric,” he says, and then he returns to eating.

“Of?”

Giselric pauses, says, “Giselric of Asgard.”

“How then have I not seen your face before?”

“You ask from where I hail, Odinson,” Giselric says. “And as of today, I hail from Asgard.”

“What of the days before?”

“What matter? They have been burned to ash, even in my memory. I know of no day before this one.”

From the corner of his eyes, Thor sees his father watching their exchange closely. An uneasy feeling settles in Thor's stomach. “If you are of here, you ought know our ways. The seat you've taken belongs to my dear friend. Find your own.”

Thor is prepared should Giselric choose a violent response, and he can see the stranger considering his options. But Giselric, ever impassive, shrugs again, stands, and leaves for a different seat.

“Not very friendly,” Sif says.

“He was not. There is something strange of him,” Thor says.

Sif says, “I was referring to you.”

That night, Ikol is late. Ikol is so late that he may not come at all, and Thor is going to have spent the entire night pacing. He cannot even track Ikol down. He'd tried to follow Ikol, once, to see where he goes when he is not here. But Ikol disappears as soon as he's through Thor's doors. Perhaps to Niflheimr. Thor could turn Asgard inside out and not find a trace of his ghost. That is not to say Thor won't try, should Ikol not show.

When Ikol does arrive, minutes before he will have to leave once more, he is paler than Thor has ever seen him. Banked madness glimmers in his eyes, and he flickers wildly.

What Thor would not give to be able to fold Ikol in his arms. “What kept you?” he asks. He means to speak neutrally, soothingly. His voice breaks before the sentence ends.

Ikol just trudges forward, for once paying no mind to his treasures and creatures scattered throughout the rooms. He stands before Thor and ever so carefully lowers his head so his forehead seems to rest on Thor's shoulder. His hands fold around Thor's waist, and though his movements do not so much as displace the air, Thor swears he can feel Ikol's hands fist in his shirts. Thor is still, utterly, lest he break the illusion.

“I am not returning,” Ikol says. “I hate it. This is worse. I cannot stand – I cannot stand that and then have this and then – I am leaving, when the sun is risen, and I am not returning.”

Thor's hands fist at his side. “No,” he says.

“You have no say in this! Do you have the slightest comprehension of – it was better. Not to know. Not to know that you exist.”

Ikol is taller than him. Was he always? Thor cannot remember. He brings a hand up to carefully cradle the back of Ikol's head. Ikol presses closer, as if he can feel Thor's touch. _You are everything to me_ , Thor wishes he could say. He asks, “What happened? Please tell me.”

Silence stretches between them. So softly that perhaps he wasn't meant to hear, Ikol says, “I learned my use.”

Ikol will say no more, and when he leaves, he does not return.

* * *

_Within the Mirror_

Loki, eyes closed and curled on the floor of his cage, allows his shade to dissolve from the Odinson's phantom embrace. The back of his neck itches and stings, the slight wound still raw hours and hours later. It barely bled, hardly broke skin, but it yet burns white-hot. Or is it only its memory that burns? Not even the sheets of ice at his back and the gentle snowfall on his face soothes him.

This is the Odinson's fault. All of it.

Loki's choice, and oh, he'd chosen, hadn't he? The blade at his neck and he could have stood still while it sliced through, could have _let go_ , his choice, _his_ , but he hadn't. Flinched at the crucial moment. Flinched with the Odinson's wretchedly lovely face in his mind's eye and the thought, _There will be no grave marker for you to find._ No farewells between them. Just Thor every evening waiting for his ghost – truly dead, not that Thor would ever ever know. Would the Odinson have rent the realms to shreds searching for him? Or would Ikol's memory have faded, fleeting and then lost? The first Loki would not mind particularly. The second guts him.

What would he have done with Loki's owls? With his treasures? With the wooden lute he'd played at Loki's stubborn insistence while Loki sang?

Does he hear the hum, too? Loki sometimes wonders. Would it have been silenced, suddenly, at Loki's death?

His neck should not still be so pained! Loki's recovered from much worse in easily a quarter of the time. Jötunheimr is not kind to creatures so simply laid low. Or perhaps he has been spending far too much time in a shade's form, too much time lazing, and he has forgotten the immediateness of flesh. For all he has endeavored to remember himself, he is beginning to understand how very much he has let slip away.

Wretched Odinson.

_Niflheimr calls to me, and though our time together was sweet, I must return._ That's one of the lies Loki had settled on, shock still settling in his limbs, as he'd stumbled to the Odinson's chambers early this morning and prepared to sever himself from the Odinson's life. The other being the opposite lie, harsh and cruel – _You have begun to bore me. You've become unworthy of my company. I will debase myself tolerating yours no longer._

So of course Loki did neither nor anything as sensible. He had taken not even a second's glance at that wretched bright face, drawn with worry, and suddenly could not bear the weight of his own misery, not when the stupid Odinson had those stupid broad shoulders that Loki knew could carry any weight with ease. He–

Wait. Ice? _Snow_?

Opening his eyes, Loki studies the gray sky above him; he turns his head to see the sea of snow surrounding him. He stands and turns a slow circle. Hand pressed against an icy wall, Loki carefully explores the unexpected new shape of his cage. Walls still, but made of frost and so far apart Loki could almost deceive himself into believing they are not there at all. The doors providing sustenance are gone, and in their place a deep lake teeming with fresh catch. A light dusting of snow falls continually. If not for the enormous mirror, still the size and shape of one of the four walls, Loki might almost believe himself home. This is not the cage the All-Father returned him to. Not the cage Loki was in when he'd closed his eyes and sent his shade to the Odinson.

This is a mirror, and Loki starts to understand what that means.

But his books! He scrambles through the snow, searching, panicking, until his fingers scrabble against something solid. He uncovers stacks of them, damaged in the damp but still legible. Then he circles the walls of the cage, his hands trailing along the surface, and when he would despair his fingers catch on a hinge and he opens the door – and there. Another book. Relieved, he closes the door, making sure to mark its location.

He explores next his newfound lake, diving in with no more care than with which he’d dived into the contents of the cage’s strange boxes, icy water rushing by as he pushes his limbs, seeking the lake's floor. Once upon a time he'd delighted in tormenting the baby sea-spiders, which were half his height and crawled the ocean floors – tickling at their many furry red legs and poking at their many eyes and dashing away before their sires – the largest could tower over Laufey-king – returned to protect their young.

Once Loki had snatched a handful of eggs and hidden them throughout Helblindi's room. Helblindi, still an infant, had eaten seven hatched spiders before the infestation was discovered – he'd nearly died from the venom. Loki, who had still been petulant at the birth of a true heir, had wished he had. Still wishes he had, despite that Loki had grown slightly fond of him. But if Loki had been the only heir, even though a bastard one, he would not have been so carelessly handed over.

Effortlessly snatching a charr as he kicks through the water, he is half-way back to the surface before his lungs begin to protest. He begins struggling, clumsy, nearly pulled back down. He gasps when he breaks through, losing his catch as he struggles to breathe. Once upon a time he could've spent an hour below the waves and felt only the slightest strain. Now a few minutes have left him dizzy and breathless. Too long. It's been too long. He struggles to the edge and pulls himself up to sit at the edge, legs still dangling in the cold.

Just like home, is it not? But not the home his heart these days craves.

What an awful turn.

Not where he does not wish to be, but the mirror reflection of where he does. And the quiet hiss of the All-Father's falling blade, the moment of agonizing indecision, his anger at his own helplessness, despair at being returned to his cage – Loki, for the first time, had not prayed to be enfolded in the comforting embrace of his dearly missed Jötunheimr. He'd desired, more than anything in all the realms, to enfold Thor in his own.

What a pitiable, pitiful mess.

Sifting handfuls of snow through his fingers, feet still kicking the water, he cannot even find delight in the coolness of his cage. All he'd wanted and now it is no more balm than being given a choice that is no choice.

So much he's forgotten. What if he forgets, too, that he is in a cage at all?

The Odinson's fault. All of it.

That evening, the All-Father returns with the ungrateful Hogun in tow. Hogun, who can be no older than Loki but carries himself as he if carries on his shoulders a weight older than their ages combined, watches impassively as the All-Father reaches a hand through the mirror and waits. Loki wants to spit on it. Or stab an icy dagger through it. Or simply slice it clean off. But the All-Father's patience is proving to be endless.

If only the All-Father had demanded – had yelled and belittled and sneered. Done anything but patiently explain, over and over, and then hold out his hand just as he holds it out now. Waited just as he waits.

The All-Father does not appear to notice the snow. Probably cannot see it. Loki brought this cage with him, and it is his alone.

Loki shifts from foot to foot, staring at the wrinkled palm. He does not want to. He does not want these brief moments of freedom, only to be stolen away. He does not want the sheen of sympathy in the All-Father's one eye. He is a tool to this king, an instrument; equal to the hammer on the other side of the vault, to the gleaming gauntlet. Kept in adequate condition, treated carefully when its use is required, then returned to its place when required no longer. Every person, every object, in all of the realms – naught but instruments for whatever purpose the All-Father requires.

_You are too an instrument_ , Loki thinks to Hogun, whose dark eyes stare past Loki's gaze. _We merely know not yet your tune._

“I hate you,” Loki says. It comforts him to speak the words. The All-Father's hand does not waver. “To the depths of me, I hate you.” No change. “I am of the land of giants. Great beasts roam our fields, our settlements – beasts of fangs and poison and unthinking, unreasoning fury. They can be neither tamed nor contained.” The All-Father waits. “But _you_ are the monster my sires told me of at night.”

There. The slightest, almost imperceptible flinch. Loki places his hand in the All-Father's and allows himself to be led out of the mirror. The vault's heat is oppressive after the respite of his now-snowy cage. His neck itches. There is a large ceramic bowl on the floor by Hogun's feet and a jeweled dagger beside it.

“Your hands,” the All-Father says.

Hogun hesitates nearly as long as Loki. Ungrateful wretch, to pity himself his fate when standing next to Loki. He is being gifted a long future to carve however he so chooses and a cage the size of a realm.

The All-Father slices a careful line along Loki's right palm and a mirror slice carefully along Hogun's left. Lining up the wounds, he presses their hands firmly together. Hogun, as he'd done yesterday, grimaces when his palm touches Loki's. _Ungrateful wretch._ The All-Father folds their fingers down and murmurs in some old, lost language. At his direction they both kneel, hands together and over the bowl. The first drop of mingled blood falls.

“One hour,” the All-Father says. Hogun nods once. Loki turns to stare away from the All-Father. “Very well. I will return.”

Loki is surprised he actually leaves them. Yesterday, he'd stayed for the duration, while both Loki and Hogun sat in sullen silence. Loki doesn't know what the other boy has to be sullen about. This is all for _his_ benefit. All because _his_ father–

“Stop fidgeting,” Loki hisses. “If you move we'll have to begin anew. Are you so eager for my touch you'd prolong this torture?”

“I am not the one who hums for escape,” Hogun says.

Fine. So perhaps it is Loki who is tapping his free fingers against his leg and glancing continually at the entranceway, counting the steps in his head, weighing his chances, while Hogun is still as stone – barely alive if not for the minute rise and fall of his chest with each breath.

“I can make you hideous, you realize. That is,” Loki's eyes flick over the boy's frame, “ _more_ hideous. You should show more deference to me. The All-Father would be unable to undo it.” Maybe Loki could alter the spell so. Maybe not. But if Loki does not know for certain, there is no chance Hogun does.

If Hogun appears bothered by the threat, he seems more so by the reminder that this spell his altering his true appearance – however subtly – than by the idea that it will be an appearance not to his liking. “Jötunheimr will erupt into flame before I owe any of its people deference.”

Loki allows a touch of frost to creep from his hand to Hogun's. Hogun hisses and clearly struggles not to pull away. “You will disrupt the ritual!” he says through clenched teeth.

“Different type of sorcery,” Loki says, not that he owes the wretch an explanation. “Frostbite will alter nothing.” Probably. “As I said, perhaps you ought pay me deference.” When Hogun does not answer, Loki says, “The opposite as well. If you are pleasant and pleasing, I could bestow on you whatever conception of attractiveness you desire.” If Hogun would simply _talk_ without so much prompting. Be actual company to Loki's starved mind.

But Hogun must hear his thoughts and seek to punish him, for he will say no more no matter how Loki alternates between flattery and insults, nor the cold he pours into the other boy's flesh.

Loki is left to wait in silence save for the steady drip of blood. Ungrateful wretch, Hogun is. Has Loki not waited in silence enough?

When the All-Father returns, he unclasps their hands – Loki pointedly wipes his clean against the floor – and waits for Loki to return to his cage. When Loki does – he'd had a choice this go around and he had chosen captivity over death – the All-Father brushes a hand against the mirror frame. He and Hogun shimmer out of view, and Loki is left alone with naught but his reflection and this poor facsimile of Jötunheimr.

The All-Father had said nothing to him. Surely he has not so soon run out of words? And for all Loki is doing for him. Not willingly, of course. Not happily. But he's allowing his own blood to be spilled for that wretch Hogun. Maddening, and his neck itches even worse than before.

Not that Loki _wants_ to talk to–

Forcing his thoughts to slow, Loki rubs carefully at his neck. He does not even feel where the skin broke. How could it burn so? Particularly as the cut along his palm is barely felt.

Hateful ritual.

An hour – sixty drops of mingled blood – every day for a year, and Hogun's appearance will be altered forever and ever. No use guessing what happens then. What happens then is whatever the All-Father deems will happen. Maybe next time Loki will choose differently – will not be burdened with the Odinson's memory – or be given a different choice altogether.

Oh, the Odinson. Already Loki wishes to escape to him.

Instead, Loki returns to the lake. He ought build up his endurance once more. Perhaps he will one day return, after all, and he ought be prepared. Loki won't. He knows he will not, knows that for a fool's dream, but it is sweet to pretend.

The next evening and the next and the next are the same. His hand clasped to Hogun's, their mingled blood dripping down, maddeningly slow, Hogun's ungrateful silence and Loki's unsuccessful attempts to goad. When Hogun does finally respond to him, it is for an unexpected cause.

“Giselric,” Hogun snaps.

Giselric? That name is not known to him. An uneasy feeling crawls along Loki's spine. Has he missed some part of their conversation? Begun imagining different ones again? He thought he'd adjusted. It is too soon to be healed, but he'd thought…hoped.

“I know not that name,” Loki admits grudgingly, but he's pleased Hogun has deigned to speak to him.

“It is mine,” Hogun says. “I am Hogun no longer. I leave that name along with my people and my past. It is as my father bid, and I honor his bidding.”

How strange, creatures that attach such weight to their one appearance, such significance to a single name. How stifling. Above all how blind, to think form changes one's core.

“Interesting,” Loki says. “Particularly as _I_ know everything. What horrors your people committed, _Hogun_. Can our sins truly be so easily erased? Very well. You may call me Thor. That's a decent, clean name, is it not?”

“If you want to share a name with that arrogant fool, you are welcome to it.”

Loki, without thinking, allows a blast of frost to crawl from him to Hogun. Allows frost to crawl also into his voice as he says, “It does not change that I know your true name. I owe you not my blood.”

“And I and all of the realms know what horrors Jötunheimr unleashed on Midgard – on other peoples through the centuries. I owe you less. Any punishment you believe you are enduring, you and yours deserve a thousand-fold. In any matter, to whom shall you tell my name? The walls?”

Loki squeezes his hand tighter – blood drips a touch faster. “If you are so sure you stand above me, do not deserve the same imprisonment, if your wrongs are not as sinful, tell me then, Giselric: Why then did the All-Father not rule in your people's favor? Why was their recompense to be paid, and why paid by your father and not your enemy's? Well?” he demands, when Hogun does not answer.

“Such righteousness,” Loki sneers, while Hogun lapses into resentful silence. And as he leaves and arrives night after night, Loki has interest no longer in speaking with him. Why should Loki waste his time with this ungrateful wretch? Just because it is the only currency Loki possesses – and possesses in ample quantity – is no reason to spend it carelessly.

Between these sullen sessions Loki swims and swims, deeper and deeper, until each day he brushes his fingers against the sandy floor and kicks along that depth until he could die from the agonizing pressure in his lungs. And as the days pass, the lake is deeper in equal measure to how increasingly desperate Loki is to escape to the Odinson's presence.

One afternoon he creates and wills away his shade dozens of times before he mutters, “Enough,” and goes instead to swim in the lake. Deeper still, deeper than even the greatest of Jötunheimr's vast oceans. His limbs rejoice in this regular exertion after too long spent in cramped indolence. But he wants the Odinson. His voice. His light presence. To follow the path of the hum in his heart to its true source and hear it grow louder. Fool, that Thor wallows thinking his people follow him for who he will be without realizing why they follow him for who he already is. It is not about experience, about skill, about age – but presence, and being as helplessly drawn to him as hail to the ground.

Finally breaking the surface, gasping, Loki says, “Does he yet wait for me, gatekeeper?” Loki does not care to use the gatekeeper's name, even though he's learned it. Maybe he will if one day the gatekeeper himself gives it. “You ought tell him I meant my words. I will not return to him. But you will not, will you? Repeat anything I say? I do not think I am imagining your attention, but I wonder that you keep my secrets.”

He has. The All-Father seems to have no knowledge of just what his pet Jötun has been up to or with whom.

Loki ducks back under the water, catches a charr and returns to the surface to bite into it as it still wiggles in his hand. “Or is that the burden of seeing and hearing all?” Loki asks the unseen gatekeeper as he chews. “That it is yours alone to bear? I wonder if it is not, as I supposed, that the All-Father has not thought to ask, but that you refuse to say?”

No answer, of course. Loki will need to become re-accustomed to never receiving any. His visits to the Odinson spoiled him.

Charr finished, he ducks again under the icy water, thinking of those visits. They had been like dreaming.

Loki does not recall the beginning in any coherent order, just flashes of detail – the dagger, the sound of rain, bright blue eyes, the pattern of the tapestries on the walls. He'd been exploring the Asgardian settlement, seeking empty rooms and studying their alien shapes. He'd meant to map out as far as the gatekeeper allowed him to – a sudden, fierce attention, and Loki knew to turn around. Learned, also through this means, that his roaming was not permitted past day break.

Then he found the Odinson and never managed to convince himself to resume his explorations. When he'd first studied those books on the Odinson's shelves, the titles had not meant much to Loki. And when the Odinson began reading, the words did not either. Loki had been too starved for a voice not his own and to meet a gaze not his own reflection. When he'd settled after a few weeks, enough to pay heed, Loki had been stunned to realize the books' contents – secrets and histories he would wager not even Laufey-king knows, and all carelessly given by the Odinson.

The first creature in all the realms, in all of Loki's short life, to have ever shown him kindness.

He'd felt guilty, almost as if he'd tricked the Odinson into revealing these secrets, and he'd contemplated telling the Odinson to stop or to not return. But each night Loki resolved to explore elsewhere, he'd pause at the Odinson's doors and then helplessly pass through them. He doesn't remember when he'd stopped bothering to pause. He remembers when he'd privately vowed to keep the Odinson's secrets as faithfully as the gatekeeper has kept his own. That night on the balcony, the gift of Loki's owls, the softness of the Odinson's expression.

_I am yours_ , Loki had realized, helpless. Hail pulled to the ground.

Still is Thor's, if Loki chose this limbo-life over the escape of death.

Another evening, another eternity spent touching Hogun's horrid skin. It is not fair. That is the crux of it. In other circumstances, Loki might even have appreciated a creature that knows restraint and silence. Certainly Hogun is the opposite of what Loki anticipated of other peoples – no where near the portraits the Odinson would paint of his boisterous companions or his fellow Asgardians at the evening feasts.

But it is not fair. A debt. The All-Father owed Hogun's father a _debt_ , and on what did that idiot choose to spend it? His son's life. He could have chosen anything, most likely, and he chose his son.

If Laufey-king had possessed such a debt, it would not even have crossed his mind to spend it on Loki. Not for a single heartbeat. For all Loki knows, Laufey-king did and does posses such uncollected debts – possesses ten or twenty of them! – and kept them to himself. If Loki somehow escaped this captivity, somehow presented Laufey-king with Asgard's ruin – even then he would not have spent such a treasure on Loki. Loki knows this. Knew this even as he'd sought to learn Asgard's secrets from within. It would have taken much less than the Odinson's charms to cause Loki to abandon such schemes.

“You've met the Odinson?” Loki asks, voice neutral. It's likely the first civil words he's offered Hogun, and it shows in Hogun's startled blink.

“I have,” he says, cautious.

“You think him an arrogant fool?”

“I do.”

Loki has intermittently thought that and far worse. But it grates on him that anyone else would hold such a view. “What cause have you to think so?”

Hogun snorts. “Where to start? He plays games. He overlooks wise advice though he is surrounded by wise men that would offer such freely and plentifully. He takes not seriously his role as heir – not just to Asgard, but to all the realms. He is far from convincing me to bow to him. Need I continue?”

Loki prompts Hogun for more – about the Odinson, about the baby brother, about the court in general. It is not the same as hearing directly from the Odinson, and Hogun is as far from a natural storyteller as Loki could fathom, offering scant detail or elaboration without incessant prompting. But it is a facsimile. Close enough, if it is all Loki can allow himself to have.

As the days pass and pass, as Hogun begins to offhandedly mention being invited on several outings with the Odinson and his companions, and then several several more, an unwilling admiration begins creeping into his tone. He needs ever less prompting to speak of Thor's exploits, and while he may still need convincing, he seems to require less convincing each day.

As inevitable as hail to the ground.

Almost it is like having the Odinson's company again, as Hogun begins delighting more in telling of their adventures. And accordingly, though Loki endures more and more time beneath the lake, the lake floor once again creeps closer to the surface.

Hogun's company becomes almost – not quite, but almost – tolerable.

But it is still not fair.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Revised chapter posted August 2014.**

_Within the Mirror_

Loki is beneath the lake surface when he senses what he has come to recognize as the mirror shifting from reflection to doorway. He studies the mirror, puzzled and uneasy. It is far too early for Hogun to arrive. Heart beginning to thump, Loki's mind races – is the All-Father come with another task? Please let it not be that. Loki has just settled into a bearable routine of sorts. When the vault is in focus, Loki's breath catches.

Thor.

“Now do you believe?” Hogun says.

Thor is here. And others – though Loki had only briefly tolerated hearing of them, he can easily name them from Thor's fond descriptions. The slim, light-haired Fandral, the stout Volstagg, the fair Lady Sif. And the wretched – though mildly less wretched to Loki these days – Hogun is there, too.

But Thor. Here in front of him as flesh. Even broader of shoulder than Loki remembers. Far from being called a man but not by any stretch a boy. Thor had promised and Loki had doubted, but here he is. Even though Loki left and has not returned no matter how he itches to do so. Loki hurries forward and presses his hands against the mirror-surface, eager and flushed. Thor found Loki. He found him and he need only reach a hand to pull Loki out, to touch palm to palm, and–

“What is this monster doing in Asgard? In my _home_?” Thor thunders.

Loki's hands slide haltingly down the mirror surface to rest limply by his sides. He stares at Thor, who turns from him to glower at Hogun.

“That I know not,” Hogun says, impassive. “Only that a Jötun is here. Now you shall apologize for naming me liar.”

“What game is this, Giselric? Answer me!”

There must be more; Loki can clearly see Thor's mouth move and Hogun's move in answer. See Thor gesturing madly as Hogun becomes mountain-still, both of them in their own fashion coiling, ready to battle. But Loki's ears hear nothing but a distant thump, startling in the sudden blank nothingness in Loki's mind. Oh – his heartbeat. Stuttering and too fast.

Then, over-loud – and when did the slim one, Fandral, lean so close? – “He _is_ unsightly, isn't he? Here I thought Branthoc was exaggerating about their kind. He was too generous.”

Volstagg, too, leans closer. They peer at Loki as if he cannot peer back. And they speak too loud – directly in Loki's ears, while Thor and Hogun are muted to him, though from the pulsing veins along their arms and crawling up their necks, their argument must be deafening.

“But why is he here?” Volstagg asks. “What purpose? Is Giselric right, also, that the All-Father knows?”

Fandral waves a dismissive hand and accompanies it with a dismissive noise. “We'll find out soon enough, eh?” He nods to the angry Thor and Hogun. “Thor will lose patience and thrash him until he confesses before long. In the meantime…” He eyes Loki speculatively. “A Jötun. In the flesh.” He throws an arm around Volstagg and leans conspiratorially close, but he does not bother lowering his voice. “Imagine this, my very good friend. The fate of Asgard – no, the fate of _all_ nine realms, all of _history_ , _everything_ you hold dear or could ever hope to.”

“Sounds grim,” Volstagg says.

“The grimmest fate you could contemplate. But you, valiant Volstagg, you alone can save all. You need only make one sacrifice. So answer me: Jötun or Muspelmegir?”

Volstagg frowns. “To fight?” Fandral grins and waggles his eyebrows. “Oh,” Volstagg says, grimacing. Loki cannot help taking a step back against the distaste in Volstagg's expression. “The fate of all the realms, you say?”

“All of them,” Fandral says, solemn. “And history, as well. The future. _Everything_.”

“Would you say everything truly deserves saving? What if–”

“Come now! We are all of us counting on Volstagg the Valiant! Either that Muspelmegir maiden we inadvertently – but bravely and fortuitously! – rescued the other month–”

“That was a _girl_?”

“Why, Volstagg, you speak of the fairest Múspellsheimr has to offer! Either her, or this – uh, this fine specimen here.”

These are not the kind, loyal companions Thor had described to him. Loki sees neither kind-hearted Volstagg nor charming Fandral. Lies. It was all _lies_. All this time he's spent doubting his own father-kings! Thinking their blanket judgment of Asgardians over-hasty. No, his father-kings spoke truth – harsh as it was.

_Thor_ spoke lies.

“Hardly fair,” Volstagg protests. “It cannot be a female Jötun?”

“I believe, my good sir, we are looking at one.”

Volstagg turns even greener. “I shudder to think what their men look like!”

“Do you ever pay attention?” Fandral sighs, gratingly loud. “I believe, unless Radulf is playing some grand joke, we're looking at that, too. One and the same.”

“Truly?”

“Truly. Well – actually, I may be too quickly discounting the possibility Radulf jests. Just the thing that scoundrel would find amusing. And the textbook illustrations left much to be – well, I would not say desired. Desired seems a strong word. Perhaps more to the point, the illustrations were mercifully abstract. But let's settle this. You!” Fandral gestures to Loki. “Take off the cloth. Let's have a look.”

Loki's mind is scattered, empty and too crowded and spitting in anger. He can barely follow the back and forth of their banter. He backs up another step.

“Come now, do not be shy! You're practically naked as is! Do not tell me we found the only Jötun capable of shame? I'd begin to think you capable of other emotions, too, and then where would that leave us? Adrift in a nonsensical Universe.”

Loki keeps backing up until his back hits a wall. Closer than it had been, before the Asgardians arrived. It is not far enough. He can still see them. _They_ can still see _him_. Is this why some peoples wear so many layers? Loki's hands are fisted at his side, nails digging into his palms, to stop himself from wrapping his arms around his chest to hide what flesh of his he can – or from shifting to a clothed form and so revealing his secret.

“Oh, quit being vulgar,” Sif says. Loki had almost overlooked her presence, as quiet as she's been.

Fandral places a hand over his heart and says, aghast, “Vulgar? Your lady, I was restraining myself. For you!”

Sif wraps her fingers in Fandral's hair and tugs his head back, hard. He yelps, and she pushes him away as she releases him. “Will you look at how small the Jötun is? He's probably only a baby. Why, you may as well be mocking Baldur!”

The noise that is Thor and Hogun's argument is silenced as Thor slaps a hand over Hogun's mouth, halting him mid-word. He growls at Sif, “Did you just compare my brother to a Jötun?”

She blanches and waves her hands placatingly. “Of course not! I merely–”

“Good. Do not. Not _ever_. Now you,” he whirls back to Hogun, “cease avoiding my questions! How long have you known one of our enemy resided here?” Their argument whites out from Loki's hearing once more.

“It's just a bit of fun,” Fandral mutters.

Sif, arms crossed and attention on Thor whose back is turned to her, says, “I still say he is a baby and you are being cruel. He looks terrified!”

That is _enough_.

Loki snaps – all of him, mind, ears, and bones. Breaks and is undone and he flicks his arms out and in a blink enormous, fierce weapons of ice bloom along their length. He hurls himself forward – the weapons shatter spectacularly against the mirror until his bare fists rest again it it. But not before every last one of the Asgardians forgot he could not reach them and drew back, drew weapons, wide eyed in fear.

“Be thankful this cage stays me,” Loki hisses.

The Odinson recovers first. He marches to the mirror and bangs a fist against the frame; it shudders. There is no fondness in his narrowed eyes. No welcome in the tense line of his shoulders.

“Why are you here, Jötun?”

A thousand thousand insults and threats and lies form and die on Loki's tongue.

“Answer me!”

Loki has never before heard hatred in Thor's voice. Seen loathing in the downward curve of his lips. And all of it aimed at him.

“ _He_ knows,” Loki says finally, pointing a finger at Hogun, who likely does not actually. Who clearly neglected to think this plan through. There is little Hogun can reveal without revealing his own secret. Loki contemplates, briefly, shouting out Hogun's true name and origin. But no. He should save that for when Loki's gain from the revelation is more apparent.

When the Asgardians leave, finally – when the Odinson finally stops yelling at Loki, who stands dumb and deaf – Loki is actually relieved to be left with only his own reflection once more; left with no hint that any worlds exist outside this small cage.

He escapes to the lake and lets the water press against his ears and closed eyes, determined to push his limbs until they give and he is too exhausted to think. This is like Muninn all over again. Except worse, so much worse, because this time Loki should have known better. When Muninn betrayed itself to be the All-Father's bird, Loki had sworn that loathsome creature from his good graces. Immediately.

But when he'd learned Thor was the All-Father's, too…what had Loki done? Gone and confronted him. Sought a way to overlook, and Thor had readily provided. _Loki had gone so far as to allow Thor to tempt him into parting with his sorcery._ He's the Odinson, not Thor, Loki has reminded himself again and again and again. But he forgot and forgets and keeps forgetting and look where it's left him.

Broken and alone and he is going to claw out the Odinson's eyes. Slit his throat and – and – and – what is the matter with him, that these gruesome vengeances do not even comfort him?

He breaks the surface, gasping. The gatekeeper's attention is steady upon him. “Gatekeeper,” he starts to say, but no. He cuts himself off. He cannot pretend. The gatekeeper is too the All-Father's and Loki cannot forget these alliances. They matter more than blood. Has he forgotten every scrap of wisdom he gleaned from his father-kings? He cannot trust any creature that swears loyalty to the All-Father. He knows that and knew that. He is alone. Would be equally so seated at the palace's great dining hall.

But…

He had a purpose given to him by his true king. The Odinson swept that from his mind – made his thoughts softer and sweeter. No more. Before that, however, there is other work to be done.

Thor may have been free with affection and kindness, but the Odinson took away mercilessly. Ikol, too, was generous, but it is Loki's turn now, and he knows, with sudden brittle clarity, just what he means to take from the Odinson to even the wrongs done to him.

That night, when Hogun and Loki are seated opposite one another, hands clasped, Loki hisses as soon as the All-Father is gone, “Are you a fool? What could you possibly have meant to accomplish?”

“I did not mean to say anything,” Hogun says, sounding petulant. “We were talking of old battles and of course Jötunheimr came up, and it was mentioned that no Jötun has been allowed entrance to Asgard for years, and I said that was not true. Then I had to prove myself or else risk being called a liar!”

Loki sneers, “How do you mean to keep your secret forever if you cannot resist implicating yourself in a matter of months? How can you be so careless with secrets not even your own?”

Hogun breathes deeply, slowly. He says, an unusual hesitance in his voice, “I shall find a way. But I did not imagine – I have no love for your people. But you are not so intolerable as I–”

Was this wretch _apologizing_ to Loki? Could he possibly think it welcome? Could he possibly fathom what his actions have stolen?

“Strange,” Loki cuts him off. “Because you are exactly the wretched coward I always took you for.”

Hogun closes his mouth from further apology, and the sessions eventually end, when the year has finally passed, as they began – in brittle, resentful silence.

* * *

_Outside the Mirror_

Thor would never again have thought about the mystery of the Jötun in the mirror if in an alehouse on the outskirts of the place of stones, Thor and his companions bruised and battered and covered in muck and grime, Fandral does not suddenly say, “Do you think that boy even was a Jötun? In the vault?”

Thor, draped sideways across four chairs and the tankard balanced on his chest rocking precariously on his every exhale, squints at Fandral's blurry form and manages a quizzical grunt.

He'd forgotten about that Jötun – no. Not quite forgotten. Placed from his mind, perhaps. There is so much mystery in every corner of the realms and so much adventure at every turn waiting for him, why place precedence on what is at best an oddity? If there is a Jötun in a mirror in the weapons vault, then he was placed there by his father or his father's father, and there he is meant to be. Thor oughtn't question such things.

Well, he oughtn't question them over-much.

When Giselric had refused to give adequate explanation, Thor had stormed to his father's study, furious – with Giselric for knowing about the Jötun, for the Jötun for being in his home, for Jötunheimr for _existing_. “Why is anything kept here under our guard?” is the only answer his father would provide, mild in the face of Thor's thunderous anger. Thor had struggled in his anger to recall the lessons in the tower. The secrets known only to the kings on Asgard's throne. _What should be done with such an object?_ his father still asks him, again and again. Insisting there is no right answer to any query and all the same Thor cannot help the sinking uneasiness that he ever chooses the wrong one.

Thor had put the Jötun in the mirror from his mind for good reason.

“I've been thinking. About that Jötun,” Fandral continues. He is slumped in his seat and his speech is slurred.

“Thinking,” Volstagg snorts. “Fretting, more like.” He's laying on the long, steel table around which they all more or less sit, surrounded by half-empty tankards. His feet swing from side to side in time with the music that hasn't been playing for an hour, which is when the musicians retired for the evening. “And!” Volstagg starts, attempting to sit up but only falling back with a grunt that makes the table shake. “ _And_ , you said but one moment past the boy is not a Jötun at all!”

“Might not be. _Might not be_ ,” Fandral says. He stands up, wobbling as much as the table. He stabs a finger on Volstagg's chest but ends up overbalancing and collapsing atop his friend. Volstagg has begun growing out his beard, and Fandral's face is half-hidden in its already impressive bushiness. Fandral mutters into the beard, “Why would he be _there_? Why not the dungeons?”

Why _not_ the dungeons? The Jötun is not a stone that turns creatures to ash, not Heimdall who sees and hears all, not a box that holds the cold of Jötunheimr. Unless the Jötun is not, as Fandral says, a Jötun.

Thor groans again – Fandral could not bring this to discussion _before_ they'd all spent four days in drunken, joyous revelry over their victory over Hrungnir and his gang of stone giants, who had terrorized the locals until Thor and his companions arrived and turned them to dust and put Hrungnir in irons? And Thor had been in such a good mood, too.

For ages now they've had no short supply of adventures, which allow Thor to place from his mind puzzles like the Jötun in the vault and burdens like the lessons in the tower. They've befriended a barmaid back home, Brihtwyn, who knows every bit of gossip in all the realms and always passes along news of upcoming tournaments, and when even she has no news for them Heimdall will often clear his throat pointedly and even more pointedly adjust the Bifröst's aim.

Heimdall, Thor has learned, is a wonder for reasons far beyond the obvious.

Thor smiles to himself, remembering the most recent brawling and then afterwards his companions slapping his back and the gathered crowds cheering; he'd placed a hand over his heart, as was his ritual after each of his victories, and listened to that tune of lute and melody that dances in his heart whenever he closes his eyes, and silently dedicated his victory to his erstwhile ghost.

Now, Thor would be hard-pressed to choose whether he enjoyed the brawling or the celebrations more.

“Are not any Jötnar in the dungeons,” Volstagg says.

“Exactly!” Fandral says. “All of Asgard – and only one Jötun, and he is in the weapon's vault? Giselric? What say you? _Giselric_? Speak to me, dear Giselric. _Giselric_!”

Muffled grumbling drifts up from beneath the table.

“Giselric, _you_ knew of him first. What is he, truly?”

“Jötun,” Giselric says, short and gruff and half-asleep.

“He _is_ rather small for a Jötun,” Sif muses. She is also on the floor, her head lolling back on the chair by Thor's head and her legs splaying out in front of her. She taps Giselric's face with the toe of her boot.

“ _See_ ,” Fandral says. “He _was_ very small. Not a giant at all. You are so clever, your lady.”

Sif harrumphs and sinks lower. “Thor,” she says. She brings up a hand, feeling around until she finds Thor's face and then gently patting his nose. “The All-Father. Have you asked? It _was_ odd, all of it.”

“He would not say,” Thor says. He moves to knock Sif's hand away from his nose, but instead closes his fingers around hers.

“We should return and ask it,” Volstagg suggests.

“What reason would he have to speak truth?” Fandral asks. “He seemed a little afraid of us, did he not? And angry. But only slightly. If he were _truly_ frightened, truly angry, he might have shown his true form. To be in that vault – he must be old. Ancient. His true form powerful. We should – we should – if we frightened him or made him truly angry…”

“What if that _is_ his true form?” Sif asks.

“Then we'd have put fear into a criminal Jötun. No loss.”

Giselric bangs on the table from his place below, grumbling. “Save your efforts, for they will come to nothing. The Jötun was caught off guard. He will not be again. Now quiet. Some of us are about to fall to well-earned sleep.”

“Here, here!” Thor agrees, knocking over his mug in his attempt to raise it.

But Fandral insists. Thor closes his eyes, listening to his companions continue to argue. Then to Volstagg's snoring, to Sif and Giselric's snorts of laughter when Fandral slumps to the floor and ends up with the contents of half a dozen mugs spilled over his head, to the rain pattering against the tavern's windows, to the murmurs of conversations from other tavern patrons. To the tune in his heart, the melody of lute and song that reminds Thor he will never be alone. To idle thoughts of a young Jötun who may be neither young nor a Jötun at all.

His eyes snap open. The tavern is dimmer and quieter and the rain outside louder than when he'd drifted off.

_From where did you hail?_ How often had he asked that of his Ikol? _Please, a name_ , he'd insist, before Ikol would turn conversation elsewhere, distract Thor with books and stories and grins, and Thor would forget he'd been asking.

That song, Loki's insistence Thor find a lute, that Thor play certain notes while Ikol sang in beautiful accompaniment. And how while Thor thought – knew – Ikol mad, how cheerfully and thoughtlessly Thor indulged his every whim.

_If there is this song – this harmony – between us, we need never know loneliness again,_ Ikol had said.

It had sounded ominous. It had sounded dangerous. It had sounded _wonderful_ , and Thor had played, and there had been a moment of profound connection between them, a nearness of their hearts and minds regardless of distance, that – true to Ikol's word – Thor thinks has not faded since.

But that melody had been ancient. Thor has never heard it in all the taverns to which they've traveled and he does not think he would hear it played by contemporary hand. Would doubt it's _known_ to contemporary musicians.

_From where do you hail?_ Thor had asked, but not once had he thought to ask from _when_.

* * *

_Within the Mirror_

Though Hogun does not show his face again, the other Asgardians return occasionally – Fandral and Volstagg usually mock and jeer and threaten, with Sif a silent, disapproving presence behind them, though her distaste for Loki is just as apparent. The Odinson at first demands answers – he seems obsessed with knowing Loki's age and asks strange questions about Loki's origin – and then, when Loki refuses to even face their direction, he gives up and joins the others in baiting him.

Their theories for Loki's presence range from the crude to the absurd. Sometimes they spend more time admiring the weapons lining the vault than paying him mind. A few afternoons, the lady arrives by herself. She spends each visit a long while staring at Loki, and he openly stares back. She leaves without speaking.

But in between these humiliating visits, Loki practices, carefully and methodically, a new trick: learning to create a shade that the gatekeeper cannot see. And he schemes precisely how he means to take advantage of it.

_If you were younger_ , the All-Father had mused.

When after months and months he is sure of his control – no, not entirely true. When he is reasonably certain and too impatient to wait any longer – he sends out two shades. One wanders aimlessly, catching and keeping the gatekeeper's attention in case Loki's concentration falters and the second flickers into view. As the second, unseen shade he follows familiar paths through the palace hallways.

He hesitates at Thor's doors. He could – he could – he could go through, be Ikol once more, just a brief comfort. Or he could confess all, now that the gatekeeper cannot overhear. Would the Odinson apologize and free Loki once he knew him to be his precious Ikol? But what then? He finds Loki grotesque, that much is clear. And while the Asgardian form holds little appeal to Loki, his tastes tend to be as malleable as his form, and he does not think he could truly find the Odinson grotesque in turn.

No. Better not to chance it. This is a lesson he cannot keep relearning. Loki moves past, through the hallways, sliding into various chambers and searching until – ah. Here it is. He is certain as soon as he enters. Something in the air. Loki whispers closer, checking that there is only the small lump of a child on the bed and no others present. He won't make the same mistake of being caught off guard by a loitering presence on the balcony.

When he's satisfied, Loki settles on the bed by the sleeping child and studies the form – he’s surprised, honestly, at how few differences separate the Asgardian child from a Jötun one. As the little chest rises and falls, he begins to hum and then when he can recall the words to sing a soft lullaby, letting the rhythm lilt gently up and down. He is to his favorite verse – the ice-dragon's goring of the village men – when the child's eyes finally blink open.

He listens intently as Loki continues to sing. When the lullaby ends and Loki falls silent, the child says, “You're blue.”

“I am,” Loki says. “Why are you all alone?”

The child, small and fat, has to think about this. Then, “I'm _sleeping_ ,” is the solemn answer.

“But alone?” Loki presses. The child has no answer for this. “Is there no one to keep you company? Sing you lullabies? I have younger brothers, and I would sing them to sleep each evening,” Loki lies. “Have you no one to do so for you?” The child fidgets. “That is how they knew they were mine, you see.” When the child looks blank, Loki amends, “How they knew I loved them,” and that grabs the child's attention. “Does no one love you?”

“Thor loves me,” Baldur says.

“Of course,” Loki says. “Why is he not here? How does he show it?” Baldur's fat fingers curl in his blankets. “Dear me,” Loki says. “He does not sing? Does not even sit by your bed side?”

Baldur's eyes turn glassy and he sniffs. “He does not,” he says.

Loki tsks. “Off adventuring, no doubt. Leaving you behind. I heard your loneliness, Baldur,” Loki says. “My brothers are also very far away. Perhaps, you and I, we could keep one another company. I could sing to you, if you’d like. Every evening. Just for you. Would you like that?”

Baldur pokes a chubby finger at Loki's arm and appears fascinated when it passes through without resistance.

“As many songs as you'd like,” Loki says. “Though…this would have to be a secret. Just for you. If Thor found out, he'd take me away. Make you be alone again; keep you to himself and then leave you here alone.”

“I don't like being alone,” Baldur says.

“Nor I.”

“Okay,” Baldur says, with a child's definitiveness. With a royal prince's definitiveness, he demands, “Sing!”

So Baldur stares wide-eyed at him as Loki sings one song after another, and Loki stays past when Baldur sleeps, will stay until morning. And he will arrive, night after night, for as long as is necessary.

While his shade sings, Loki, curled in the snow within the mirror, smiles an unkind smile.

* * *

_Outside the Mirror_

An owl appears in the Jötun's cupped hands. It is sharp and _wrong_ , like it was crafted of paper by someone who has never actually seen an owl. Green wisps curl around its edges. The Jötun has his back turned to them, as usual, but usually his eyes are closed or his attention focused on the far wall of his cages. Now, though, he focuses entirely on the little figure fluttering in his hands.

Fandral and Volstagg continues to insult and mock the Jötun, hoping to provoke him into revealing his true form, and Sif looks on and valiantly tries to mask her laughter with a cough when Fandral gets particularly inventive, but Thor no longer listens. He's fixated on the bird and what it means.

A little paper-owl. An object of Seidr. Of _love_ , trapped and unshared. Thor isn't convinced any longer that the Jötun is anything other than what he appears to be. And if that's true, how long has he been here, any how, before Thor and his companions found him? He studies the line of the Jötun's back, the shape of his jaw. He cannot be older than Thor, he doesn't think. Sif had originally thought him just a child. Suddenly Thor and his companions' game is rather less amusing.

All the game has done, really, has been to lead Thor to a dead-end in his quest for answers about his missing ghost. How can there be no trace – _anywhere_ – of Thor's missing Ikol? If Ikol had been sacrificed to save his family, surely it follows that there must somewhere be a family that had been saved? That would recognize Ikol's description. The few leads Thor has come across have all disappointed.

If only Ikol had not decided to suddenly become true to his word. How often had he said it would be imprudent to return only to be there, impatient and eager for Thor's company, the following evening? But Niflheimr has found a use for him, if Ikol is to be believed, and Thor shudders to think what it could be.

Some days Thor misses Ikol so much he cannot bear it. If not for the melody in his heart reminding him of his ghost he thinks he would not be able to.

There is only one place he can think of that he has not yet searched for answers, and it’s time he stopped avoiding it. He turns to leave, waving at his companions not to follow. Giselric lounges at the vault's entrance; he has refused to enter the vault since that first visit. “With me,” Thor decides.

Without a question Giselric follows Thor through the halls until they reach the foot of the stairs leading up to the All-Father's secret tower. The hallway is empty – few people have need to come to this part of the palace. And his father should be in a meeting with his council for a few hours yet.

“Wait for me here,” Thor tells Giselric. “And distract anyone else – especially my father – from going up these stairs. Oh – and if anyone asks, do not say where I have gone. Lie if someone asks.”

“I'll say I last saw you passed out and naked in a drunken sprawl somewhere just outside Idunn's garden,” Giselric says with complete, solemn sincerity. But Thor has finally learned to recognize the hint of mischief lurking in Giselric's expression.

“Let us hope no one comes by,” Thor says, grinning despite himself. “I will not be long.” A few steps up Thor pauses and steps back down. “Are you not the least bit curious what is up these stairs?” he asks. Giselric at first had questioned Thor's every action whenever Thor invited him along on one of his adventures, as if Thor could not be trusted to think matters through himself. “Do not tell me you finally trust me, my friend.”

“Of course not,” Giselric said, with that same deadpan good humor. “I merely prefer to let the curious go before me. I see what ill befalls them and so avoid it myself.”

“You'll never be the first to discover anything,” Thor says.

“Perhaps not,” Giselric allows. “But I will always be alive to see it eventually.”

Thor shakes his head and turns to head back up the stairs. But he pauses again, and he says, “Remind me, in the future, to heed your advice, Giselric.”

“Then I have some advice for you, my prince,” Giselric says.

“Oh?”

Serious now, Giselric says, “You are sneaking somewhere in your own home, Thor. Whatever you mean to do, I advise you do not.”

Thor _could_ merely ask his father, he knows. Say he seeks for an object that can give him answers. That he searches for the burial ground of a lost ghost. He cannot help the quiet fear, though, that if he admits Ikol's existence to his father, his father will find some danger in it – even though Ikol has brought only joy to Thor – and forbid Thor's pursuit and add Ikol's ghost to the collection of dangerous artifacts under his watch. At best, his father will merely give him as vague and unsatisfying answer as he gives to any of Thor's queries. No, this is a quest Thor must fulfill alone.

“Noted, Giselric, but I did say to remind me in the future, did I not? I am still young enough to blame my follies on youth. A shame to squander that.”

“As you wish, Thor,” Giselric says, and Thor starts once more the trek up the endless staircase. It could all be for naught, if the door does not even let him through. Thor has never been to the tower without his father. Has never _wanted_ to. Thor doesn't belong in stuffy towers with dubious purpose and endless paperwork. When he reaches the last stair he almost hopes the door does not let him through.

But it lets him pass, and Thor slowly enters. He shuffles through stacks of paper he cannot read, studying the drawings of objects and attempting to discern from that their purpose. He checks in drawers and behind shelves and in every corner of the chamber, hoping he will recognize what he seeks when he finds it.

He does not. He had not expected to, but what is Thor if he does not have hope?

Giselric stands where Thor left him. Thor joins him and sits down on the bottommost step, at a loss. Where else is there left to look?

“You were unsuccessful,” Giselric says. At Thor's nod, Giselric says, “May I ask what you failed to find?”

“An answer,” Thor says. “Just _one_ answer. And it is no where. I have searched and searched, Giselric. How can I have found nothing?”

“If it’s answers you seek, there is always Utgarda,” Giselric says.

Thor has heard that name before, though he cannot place where. Something to do with the ancient gods, isn't he? “Utgarda?” he asks.

Giselric sinks down next to him. “You truly do not listen to anyone, do you?” Giselric says. He has said that to Thor countless times so far in their acquaintance – at first in anger and disdain, then confusion, but now softened to unwilling fondness. When Thor gathers together his companions, he is not sure precisely when that came to automatically include stone-faced, dry-witted Giselric.

“If it is important enough to be remembered, there will always be someone to remind me,” Thor says. “So tell me about this Utgarda.”

* * *

“Do all Asgardians have Jötun ghosts?” This is a topic Baldur has now spent a long time contemplating. On the one hand, it makes perfect sense to Baldur that all Asgardians would. After all, how are they meant to sleep if not sung vicious, lilting lullabies by resentful ghosts? How are they meant to feel safe without that same resentful ghost watching over them and ensuring no monsters attack in the night? But, on the other hand, well, if it is such a common thing, why does no one _say_? Baldur has been too embarrassed to ask anyone, in case the answer is obvious.

Loki, prowling around Baldur's chambers restlessly and muttering under his breath, does not hesitate to say, “Yes.”

“Oh.” Cross-legged on his bed, Baldur's neck is becoming sore from following Loki's constant back and forth movement. “Is it punishment? For you, I mean? Thor says that Jötnar–”

“ _Thor_!” Loki shouts. He swipes uselessly at the air. “Always what _Thor_ says. Always what _Thor_ thinks. As if the sun rose and set on wretched, stupid _Thor_. What have I told you about Thor, Baldur?”

“That he's a liar,” Baldur recites, dutifully if doubtfully. Though he has learned it is pointless to argue, he cannot help but add, “But you haven't _met_ him. If I adore him it is with good reason, I promise. Everyone likes him. Would you–”

“Do not waste your breath or my time with stupid questions.” Loki keeps pacing, back and forth and back and forth. Now, though, his arms are crossed tightly, shoulders hunched.

Baldur cannot recall a time when he did not have a Jötun ghost come to visit him at night and belittle him and sing him lullabies until he falls asleep. “You're dead,” Baldur decides to remind him. “What is time to you?”

“Don't get clever,” Loki says. “You'll strain yourself, and then what would I do for entertainment? Selfish brat.”

“Are all Jötun ghosts as mean as you?”

“Are all Asgardians as boring as you? Look at your chambers!” Loki sweeps his arms wide and turns in a circle. “Nothing to entertain. _Boring._ You are boring and your rooms are boring and I am _bored_ , Baldur.”

“If you would just listen! Thor's rooms are filled–”

“Thor! That's all you ever – I do not want anything to do with your precious Thor!” He is so enraged that for a terrible moment Baldur fears Loki will leave without singing, and then how will Baldur ever fall asleep? Once Loki didn't show, a few months into their acquaintance, and Baldur had wailed and _wailed_ until Loki had agreed not to do that again. Years later, Loki has kept his word.

But Loki only huffs and orders him into bed. “Sing me–” Baldur begins.

Loki interrupts, “No. Ungrateful children do not choose what lullaby they are sung.” He's really quite kind underneath the spitting vitriol, Baldur knows but is wise enough to never, ever say, and Baldur's secret conviction is proved when Loki sings Baldur's favorite.

Just as Baldur's eyes begin to close, Loki says, “Steal me something from Thor's chambers. Anything, so long as it is lovely. Do not ask for permission – just take. And do not get caught, or I shall disown you for being clumsy.”

“Okay,” Baldur mumbles.

”And find yourself better company than Thor. You do not want to always be some pest nipping at his heels, do you? His shadow casts you in unflattering light.”

“Okay,” Baldur repeats, and he drifts to sleep.

So Baldur steals things – at first to appease his grumpy ghost, and later simply for the thrill. He steals carelessly and relentlessly – food from carts, trinkets from Thor's rooms, and once the crown from his father's bedside, replaced with one of sharp needles. Later – he does not mention this to Loki – he returns most of what he's stolen. He is rarely caught and Loki enjoys the stories of his escapades. But Baldur will not, will absolutely not, no matter how Loki cajoles and insinuates and outright demands when at wit's end, turn from Thor. If only Loki would meet Thor, he would understand why.

When at the dinner table one day Baldur finally braves an innocent question on the topic of Jötun ghosts to the warrior sitting next to him, the horrified reaction prompts him to that night accuse, “You lied! Everyone does not have a Jötun ghost!”

“They do. _They_ are the liars,” Loki answers. “Everyone does. Would I not know? Jötnar are assigned an Asgardian child at death. I requested one who is brave and handsome and clever and charming – or, at the absolute least, one of the four. Obviously one could not be found and here I am. Stuck with you.”

“I too am brave and handsome and clever and charming!”

“I will grant that you have a vivid imagination to think so,” Loki concedes.

Eventually Baldur can only conclude that no one else has, in fact, such a ghost – or any ghost at all. That is, he becomes reasonably sure. Extracting a straight answer from Loki is impossible, and he cannot entirely dismisses the possibility that everyone is simply too embarrassed of their own ghost to confess to them – after all, what do the ghosts do but offer terrible advice and gather mortifying and private information and threaten to spread it around? But Baldur _likes_ Loki, and when he realizes why Loki is so grumpy at the mention of Thor, he knows just what to do.

Loki is _jealous_ of the bond Baldur shares with Thor. Is probably threatened by it. All Baldur need do is demonstrate there is no need. Words won't work. They hold little weight with Loki, who is careless with them and so distrustful of any offered. Baldur needs to offer Loki something solid.

Under Loki's suspicious frown, Baldur rummages around until he finds parchment and pen, and then he carefully draws three figures, holding hands. They are rather wobbly, just circles and lines and squares, really, so he labels them. Baldur in the middle, one hand in Thor's and the other hand in Loki's.

“I love both my elder brothers equally,” Baldur explains. “There is no need for jealousy,” he adds, just as Loki falls into terrifying, blind rage – a flickering mess of snarls and claws; and Baldur, terrified for the first time of his ghost, drops the drawing and backs into a corner, wide-eyed.

“Please stop,” he pleads, over and over until Loki calms to a quiet sulk.

“I am _not_ jealous,” Loki says, finally. Which is ridiculous, of course he is, but Baldur says, “Okay,” and Loki seems appeased.

“Burn the drawing,” Loki commands.

Baldur does, watching the edges curl in and blacken. But he does not forget the shape of the figures he drew.

* * *

Beads of sweat slip down to sting Thor's eyes. Chest heaving, every muscle in his body tense and straining, Thor snarls and pushes his not inconsiderable strength forward, his hands locked in his opponent's as he fights to force her to his knees before he is forced. The woman, Elli, every inch of her spotted skin folded into flaking, wrinkled flaps and the top of her frazzled gray hair only to his chin, lets out an over-loud sigh.

“Thor, my good prince, just give – it has been days!” Fandral calls from where he and the rest of Thor's companions are collapsed off to the side of the challenge field.

“Dear, dear me,” Elli says. “We've begun? Here I thought us merely enjoying this fine sun. Dear, dear me. Would you show some effort or else leave me to better spend my time, boy? You embarrass yourself.”

Even from this distance, Thor can hear Utgarda chuckle from atop his tall dais overlooking the field. The giant calls out, “You know the rules as well as me, Elli. The young prince may embarrass himself for as long as he desires. Do you call, young prince?”

“I do not,” Thor grits from between clenched teeth. His heels sink further into the soil and he yet throws his weight forward, arms and thighs shaking at the exertion. He may as well be a child tugging at Elli's skirts for the notice she gives.

Rising and brushing off her tunic, Sif says, “I wish to reenter. I take again Hugi's challenge.”

The tall, whip-thin god grins. He is in such constant movement, even standing still, that his edges appear blurred. “Eager, are you? I see, I see, I see. You must've miraculously increased your swiftness a hundredfold while I thought you simply panting in the grass recovering from our last match.”

Sif brushes past the grinning Hugi to stand at the starting line. She says, “So long as Thor has not yielded, then I too shall persist.”

Though Thor has no focus to spare as he shoves and strains against Elli, who keeps sighing as if bored and gives not a hairsbreadth, he sees from the corner of his eyes Sif again and again attempt to reach the finish line before Hugi, who defeats her again and again seemingly without effort.

He can barely keep his eyes open for the sweat stinging them, and though all of them tremble with exhaustion, Sif and then Giselric and then Volstagg try again and again to defeat Hugi or else the third and final challenge. Fandral still lounges to the side, chatting with one of Utgarda's servant girls. Finally, moments before Thor would collapse heavy and weightless, he calls hoarsely out, “I yield!”

Elli straightens, and without her counterweight Thor falls to one knee, gasping and shaking. “You lasted longer than most and longer than your past attempts,” she says, staring down at him. “But that is as saying a full grown Asgardian lasted longer than a babe trapped and alone in Múspellsheimr's unforgiving caverns. He may last longer, but Múspellsheimr noticed no more the addition of the man's ashes to its fields than the babe's.”

“I yielded today,” Thor manages, forcing himself to stand. “That does not mean I yield for all days hence.”

“You are always welcome to try again your luck, boy,” she says. “You and your companions are at the very least entertaining. I look forward to suffering more of your pitiful attempts.”

“Will you recover in my hall and dine with us before you take your leave?” Utgarda calls.

“We shall,” Thor says, helping his exhausted companions rise; they lean wearily against one another as they trudge up the seemingly endless steps to Utgarda's hall and gratefully seat themselves at the vast table. Fandral, Thor notes, slips quietly away with the servant girl. Elli and Hugi join them, speaking jovially to one another in some unfamiliar, old language. Why they always join the feast Thor does not know, as they keep to their own conversation.

The twentieth time over the years that Thor has come to face Utgarda's challenges and been found emphatically – laughably – wanting. These challenges are infamous throughout the realms for their impossibility – though countless have come to try, no man, woman, or child of any realm nor of any people from any time of history has won Utgarda's prize: one question, _any_ question, asked of him, and one truthful, complete answer given.

The challenges are three. First, one must reach a finish line before Hugi, but he is the god embodiment of thought – and no being is faster than thought. Second, one must outlast Elli in a show of strength, but she is the goddess embodiment of old age – and in the end, no one can withstand old age. And third and finally, one must approach the pedestal on which rests a realm – it appears as a small marble, hovering and spinning over a marble pedestal, but as Thor understands it is both representative of and actually is Midgard itself – and hold it above one's head, but no one can hold a realm in his hands, let alone by himself raise one.

That first attempt after Giselric had suggested the challenges, they had barely begun before yielding, pained and humiliated. Though Utgarda had insisted there was no reason to feel so. “Elli and Hugi, they merely like their fun,” he'd said. “They mean no true harm.” Through the years since, Thor has attempted all three challenges over and over again, and if he's come closer to his goal than the distance he's traversed is so minute as to be negligible.

But the question burns, and if he has come no closer to triumphing over Utgarda's challenges, in every other way of which he can think to explore, he has has come no closer either to its answer. Though as prince he knows that he need only present to the realms what he wishes to know and a thousand thousand will approach him gladly and freely to offer answer, it would mean explaining. And Thor will not share his secret with anyone. So he will return, for as long as is necessary.

When the fine feast is over – Fandral surreptitiously finding a seat halfway through, notably flushed and pleased – and he and his companions are heading to where Heimdall will open the Bifröst to them, Utgarda says, “A word, my future king? If I may.”

“Of course,” Thor says, waving for the other to go ahead while Utgarda pulls him to the side.

Voice low, confidential, Utgarda says, “Prince, I would be made certain that you are aware my challenges cannot be defeated, no matter the challenger? His bravery, his strength, his speed, his convictions? It cannot be so.”

“And yet you offer the challenges,” Thor says. “It puzzles me that you would refuse me for accepting it.” He has become accustomed to speaking to Utgarda in statements only. Utgarda cannot answer questions unless a victor stands before him – and then only one question, and no other ever again.

“I would do no such thing! Your attempts were welcome and so too will be as many as you yet attempt. But they must be for sport, you see. Not for a purpose that I fear goads you. Elli, Hugi, and I – we are fated to reside here for so long as Yggdrasil's branches support the realms. We three thought only to issue our challenge that it might offer us scant amusement to pass our centuries. And eons later they amuse us no less – we delight in the endless queues of brave, strong warriors that come to us. We are honored by each royal figure that graces our halls – and a king of Asgard such as yourself, to so often avail us of his company? A true honor. But they are not meant to be won, and they cannot be.”

Clasping Utgarda's arm – as his shoulder is far too high to reach – Thor says, “Then let me make certain you are aware of this: I am indeed compelled by purpose, and if no other man compelled by purpose has stood before you in victory, then no other man has ever been compelled by such purpose as that which compels me.”

Utgarda still shifts uneasily. “I would that when you are king of all you do not think ill of me that I have not offered aid freely. You must understand that I cannot.”

“I do,” Thor says. “To find yourself in my poor graces, you would need do more than abide by rules I knew were stone before approaching you.”

Utgarda hesitates and then he says, “Then understand also that would that I could, I still would not. My gift – that any question posed to me I know wholly and utterly the answer, even if my tongue refuses to divulge it – could be so easily abused. It is a risk I would not take even were I capable of doing so.”

“Then we are in agreement,” Thor says, grinning. “I shall continue to engage in your challenges, and when I am finally victor, your gift shall finally be put to good use, eh?”

Utgarda bows his head slightly. Tone amused, he says, “It would appear so, my lord.”

* * *

Thor has left for Utgarda's. _Again_. Thor only allows Baldur to join him and his companions when they stay within Asgard. “You're too young, Baldur the Brave,” Thor will say. “And the places I travel too dangerous. One day. I promise.” Sure, Baldur is young and not even in training, But he adores Thor so much and is going to be tall and strong and perfect just like him. When Thor spends time with him, when he walks with a friendly hand on Baldur's shoulder, _including_ him, Baldur feels like he is already his beloved brother's equal.

So Baldur usually pays only cursory attention to those his own age. He only notices the two girls in the hallway when he overhears them mention Lady Sif. They speak in excited, breathless whispers about her exploits and how they want to train as warriors just like her.

“I heard she armed herself for the Jötun invasion when she was yet younger than us!” one whispers to the other, as Baldur listens.

”Branthoc does not train girls,” Baldur says. They jump and whip around to face him. They stare at him without recognition.

”No one asked you,” one of them snaps.

”We _will_ be just like Lady Sif,” the other snaps.

His ghost is ever telling him that he needs to stop following Thor around. Well, he says it with words crueler than those, but the gist is the same. But perhaps Loki is right – he needs companions his own age. Baldur will not be Thor's equal if he does not train, but he cannot yet fight with Thor or the warriors. He may have just found a solution.

“We should battle,” he informs them. When they do not immediately understand, he decides, “You will be the Asgardian force. I am the Jötnar army. Let us say – the garden outside the southeast entrance is Jötunheimr. And the little archway in front,” he shapes it with his hands. “That will be the Bifröst. I will attempt to cross it in twenty minutes. _Do you dare stop me_?”

They exchange a baffled glance. “Huh?” one of them asks.

“You refuse? Hah!” he says, mimicking Loki's derisive tone. “I always knew Asgardians were cowards!” Their mouths drop open in unison. Recalling something Loki once offhandedly muttered, Baldur bellows, “For Ymir's endless winter!” and he sprints down the bridge to the southeast gate, passing his mother along the way. Her loud, shocked, “Baldur!” follows him.

Baldur is grinning – his mouth hurts he is grinning so widely.

He grabs a branch as weapon and waits – but he is not kept waiting long. “For Odin!” his foes cry, brandishing their own branches. The battle, Baldur believes, is glorious, even when the branches snap and they resort to throwing leaves and twigs at one another, chasing around tree trunks and pulling hair and tripping and occasionally mixing up who is fighting whom.

When he crosses the archway in delirious, breathless triumph, he shouts, “I claim Asgard for the glory of Jötunheimr!” He ignores the scandalized expressions of the thralls and warriors that are passing outside the garden entrance. The girls behind him pant, bent over with their hands on their knees and absently picking leaves from each other's hair.

“No fair,” one says. “Jötunheimr is not supposed to win!”

“Asgard always wins,” the other agrees.

Baldur shakes his head. “Be better next time and it – well, it still will not make difference, not while I am champion. But you may delay it.”

A calculating look. “When will Jötunheimr strike again, do you think?” one of them asks.

“Tomorrow. The same time. They are predictable,” Baldur says, making a mental note to never repeat that in front of his ghost. “Will any dare stand in my way?”

“Might do,” one says.

“Might do,” the other echoes.

“Good,” Baldur says. He smiles, and delighted, suddenly shy smiles bloom on both their faces. Later, he tells Loki that he has claimed the southeast garden for Jötunheimr.

”It took you long enough to be useful,” Loki says, but he does a poor job masking how pleased he is with Baldur's victory.

”I wonder if Thor will be upset,” Baldur worries. “That I fought for Jötunheimr, I mean. He does not – he may misunderstand.”

”I doubt your precious _Thor_ has the wits to understand such nuance,” Loki sneers. “Do not bother telling him.”

Baldur only shakes his head in deep disappointment. “We've been over this, Loki,” he says. “I've told you what would happen if you spoke ill of Thor.”

“No!” Loki gasps with sudden dramatics, backing up one step and then another, hands help up in a placating gesture. “I am sorry. Truly. I say it sincerely and wholeheartedly and without reservation – I am _sorry_.” The way the words are wrenched from him Baldur doubts that many people have previously forced the word sorry from Loki's lips.

”If I do not follow through on your punishment you'll always think my threats empty!”

“But I would not!” Loki is quick to protest. “Quite the opposite! I would think only adoring thoughts of – of Baldur the Benevolent, who looked upon me with great mercy and – stop that at once! Put those away!”

“It will be over quick enough if you stop distracting me,” Baldur says mildly. He's already spread out the parchment on his writing desk and uncorked fresh jars of ink. “You make this a hundredfold worse than need be. Now be quiet and accept your punishment gracefully.”

“I will do no such thing,” Loki says, and hissing in aggravation he claws his fingers at Baldur's face. Baldur remembers flinching the first time Loki had made such a gesture. Now he only rolls his eyes as the shade's hand passes harmlessly through.

Baldur just begins drawing, humming one of the songs Loki has taught him.

“Each brush stroke is as a knife to my flesh,” Loki says. Baldur snorts and continues fleshing out the drawing. “Ow,” Loki says each time pen tip meets parchment, or he hisses, or he groans as he holds a hand to his chest. “You monster,” he adds.

When Loki has long since collapsed to the floor with a final pained groan, Baldur says, “It is finished. Have a look.”

Hands over his face, Loki says, “But I am fallen. You cannot so thoroughly slay a foe and then bid him rise.”

“I cannot bring myself to burn it without _someone_ seeing it. Perhaps I ought gift it to–”

“You would not dare!” Loki says, and with clear reluctance he stands and leans once more over Baldur's shoulder to consider the drawing spread out over the desk.

“Well?” Baldur says. “What do you think?”

“Your skill degrades each time your pen touches paper. Someone ought confiscate your pens and paints as a kindness.” He swipes a hand through Baldur's head.

“I think I'm improving, too,” Baldur says. Although it is cheating, he places a hand against the drawing and Seidr curls outwards, causing the colors to deepen with shadow and depth, Thor's cape to flutter gently, and light to reflect from Loki's horns. As a finishing, cheeky touch, he causes a heart to form in the background and frame their three figures.

Drawing had been a revelation for Baldur. Though he'd tried all the usual outlets for the Seidr rumbling and pressing beneath his skin, it was not until he'd returned to one of the quick sketches he’d drawn to punish Loki and at some strange impulse pressed his palm to the page to smooth the lines and sharpen the details that he sighed in relief and felt the demand quiet down. It is the only use of Seidr that has ever felt natural to him.

And yet the result is empty and not natural at all. The lines born of his own painstakingly earned skill are cleaner and truer than the flashy lines born of enchantment. The Seidr under his skin tempts him to rely on it, to hone it, to use it not for its true purpose but to create breathtaking works of art, but there is a darkness to its ease; there is the implication that it will come at a terrible price.

He's come a long way from his first, clumsy sketches, and he is determined to improve further yet by his own effort. He will not mourn the loss when he one day outgrows his Seidr and no longer has access to this shortcut.

“That is new. What is this?” Loki asks after a long moment spent frowning at the drawing.

Baldur, all innocence, says, “Sorry? Which part of me basking in the adoration of my elder brothers and they basking in mine are you referring to?”

“Brat,” Loki mutters, again swiping at him. “I mean this.” He traces the heart, ending where the two curves meet in a point.

Baldur stares. “Are you jesting?” he asks. Loki retraces it, impatient. Baldur says, “I understand not how you can be both so clever and dumb, Loki.” Before Loki can respond, no doubt with equal insult, he says, “It's a _heart_. I thought perhaps my narrative was too obtuse. Since you seem unable to grasp it.”

“That is not a heart of any creature of which I'm aware,” Loki says. “And where are the veins? Where is the blood?”

“It is not meant to be an exact likeness,” Baldur says. “It's not your actual heart. It is the love in your heart.”

Loki, as usual, grimaces at anything so Asgardian as _love_. He says instead, “I've looked as bid. Now burn it.”

Baldur does not immediately comply. He smooths out the paper, fingers lingering particularly over the two sets of joined hands. “I know you will not,” he says quietly, “but I do wish you could meet Thor. I think you would like him. And I think he would very much like you.”

“Burn,” Loki repeats. “Now. Or I will not sing to you tonight.”

“I will, I will!” Baldur says, though he cannot help the brief twinge of grief as he crumples the drawing and tosses it into the fireplace. Watching the corners blacken and crinkle inwards to ash, he says, “I do not prefer when you threaten that. You know I have upsetting dreams if I am not sent to sleep with your lullabies.”

Loki says, as Baldur washes and dresses for sleep, “You would be mocked by your peers if they knew you required such childish things – are slave to such childish whims. Be thankful I do not whisper your secret to all of Asgard. Let them laugh.”

Settling under his blankets, smiling when Loki despite his words settles cross-legged on the bed beside him, Baldur says, “Even so. I would still have upsetting dreams”

As Baldur drifts to sleep, a smug smile on his lips, Loki murmurs, “What a marvelous Jötun you would've made. A wicked prince, to conquer and rule all of Jötunheimr. Between the both of us, all would've fallen deliciously at our feet.”

Baldur dreams of battle scenes that are not real battles but sketches of them, blood merely spilled ink, and the following day he tracks down those twins again and they clash and play. He'll learn later that they are named Brynja and Jordis, and they are not actually twins in blood but only in their smiles and their passions.

But proper introductions come later; for now, they are too busy fighting for glory.

* * *

As usual when Thor and his warriors four are returned to Asgard, they head to Volkhard's tavern in the capital's outskirts to celebrate their victory – or, as is the case when they are returned from Utgarda's challenges, to celebrate their crushing defeat. “Oh, my poor baby, look at those bruises,” Brihtwyn coos, already at Volstagg's side the moment they are through the doors.

“They were well-earned,” he says, chest puffed.

“Was it that Elli? I want every detail of how that awful old woman threw you around like a child with a doll.” She kisses his cheek, right above his thick beard. When she makes to pull away, he grins and grabs her around the waist, pulling her in for a proper kiss.

“There are rooms upstairs, I'm told,” Sif says, when neither seems inclined to surface for air.

“I've one already reserved for later,” Brihtwyn says, winking and pulling away from Volstagg with a final peck on his lips. “Now, what fine drinks may I fetch you? The usual, I'm sure?”

“I've heard you've a stock of that fine Dwarfish absinthe,” Thor says.

“Oh, a fine choice,” she says. “Just a moment.” The barmaid heads to the back, grinning when Volstagg's hand shapes her waist as she pointedly sashays.

“Fine and _expensive_ ,” Fandral says, gloomily.

“Chin up!” Volstagg says. Always cheerful to begin with, since becoming close to Brihtwyn nothing seems capable of dampening his spirits. It is good that at least one of Thor's warriors is so happy, and she has proved a valuable friend. Everyone in Asgard eventually passes through Volkhard's tavern, and eventually she hears everyone's tale. Thor and his companions have followed leads to some quite exciting adventures based on her gossip. “You need only call off our wager and rounds will be on someone else for once in our lifetimes.”

Fandral slaps the table. “You think I cannot do it? Just you wait, good Volstagg. The moment we return to the palace proper, we'll–”

“Head to our separate rooms,” Thor finishes. “ _I'm_ calling off the wager.”

“Whatever for?” Fandral asks. Even Sif and Giselric raise their eyebrows.

Thor says only, “It no longer amuses. No more.”

“Then you needn't join us,” Fandral says. “You can–”

“ _No_ ,” Thor says firmly. “No more.”

A moment's awkward silence, and then Fandral says, “Very good, my prince.”

Brihtwyn returns with tall glasses brimming over with absinthe. “What's this?” she says. “I leave you in fine spirits, and I return _with_ fine spirits to see you all gloomy and withdrawn!”

“You left us, sweetness,” Volstagg says, “and it as as all the lights were dimmed. But now that you've returned…” She smacks his head lightly, handing around their drinks, and then she allows herself to be pulled forward onto his lap.

“I am working, my warrior,” she says, although she makes no attempt to pull away.

“Work later. Do you not want to hear our tale?”

Glancing around, seeing Volkhard not currently in sight, she says, “I suppose a moment or two will not hurt?”

Soon enough they are several rounds in, their defeat at Utgarda's already told over several times. Fandral as usual these days is already at his own table nearby, surrounded by an adoring circle of women with low necklines.

“So tell me, good Fandral,” one says, hand on his arm and her chest as good as in his face, “your love story.” Everyone has one – that moment when Seidr is ever exchanged for true, pure love. It's a popular tale in the taverns – though most are wiser than to ask Thor for his.

“You wish to hear it? I oblige gladly,” Fandral says, gesturing for the woman to lean closer in. “It was here in Asgard. The palace. When I saw,” he sighs dreamily and Sif takes a long drought. They all know what is coming. “Golden hair, fine lovely skin, beautiful eyes aglow with passionate fire. Not a word was spoken, just the two of us staring into each other's eyes – each other's _soul_ – and as easily as that…why I was lost, and wanted not to be ever found again.”

Volstagg leans in and says, “We had not the heart to tell him it was a mirror.”

“It was the happiest day of my life,” Fandral sighs.

The women laugh, and even Thor grins – it does not get less funny with the retelling.

“Come now,” the woman says, rubbing his arm with long fingers. “Your _true_ one. I heard rumor you and the lady Sigyn–”

“That is how I recall that day exactly,” Fandral interrupts.

While Fandral argues good-naturedly with the women, and Volstagg heckles him from the sidelines and Giselric pretends he is not a party to any of this, Thor heads to the bar to signal for another round. He has barely raised his hand before Freyja and Freyr materialize from seemingly nowhere to stand on either side of him, either of his elbows suddenly linked with either of theirs.

“There he is! The crown prince himself. We at last found him, Freyja,” Freyr says, beaming.

“Good fortune, Freyr,” Freyja says. “He is a difficult Asgardian to track. Always,” she flutters her fingers against Thor's arm, “out. About. Off and away. Doing, doing, doing.”

Turning his head from one side to the other, Thor says, “If you'd wanted an audience, you need only to have–”

“Oh dear, oh no,” Freyja protests. “We were not criticizing. Oh dear, no. We were observing our own usual misfortune and our current good. Believe me, there is little we prefer to an active king – king-to-be,” she amends. “Is that not so, Freyr?”

“Indeed,” he says. “And nothing we like less than a slothful one.”

Freyja and Freyr had arrived in Odin's court some months back, and truthfully Thor has mostly kept his distance. They are a strange pair, practically identically in appearance though Thor has been assured by different folk that one is three decades older than the other; however, he's heard conflicting stories as to which is which. They took an immediately liking to Idunn and she to them, which alone is enough cause for avoidance, and they are always skulking around, whispering to one another, and they say each other's name constantly as if they're likely to forget them without constant reminder.

“Fair enough,” he says. “What have you to say, then? You've my full attention.”

“We merely–” Behind his back he can feel Freyja nudge Freyr's shoulder with her free hand. “That is,” Freyr says, “we are blessed to be welcomed into your home. Truly the All-Father's reputation as wise and just is well-earned. And we wish you know that our loyalty sworn to that crown extends to you, though you do not yet wear it. If you have need, we beseech you call upon us as your loyal servants.”

“Freyr!”

“Freyja?”

She reaches now across Thor's front to nudge her brother. “Do not be so demanding of our fine prince!”

“ _Demanding_? I was hardly – ah. Now that I'm rethinking the words, yes. I hear it now. This instead, fine prince: When you have need, we pray you do not forget we loyal servants are available to be called upon.”

“It is an improvement,” Freyja concedes.

Thor is becoming dizzy turning between them. He glances over his shoulder at Sif, who is watching him with a sympathetic grimace. _Save me_ , he mouths.

Turning back to the siblings, he says, “This was your message? You mean to say this is what you have been struggling to pass on to me? I do not question the loyalty of any in my father's court, if that was your worry.”

“Oh dear me, no worry,” Freyja says, hand to her chest. “Was there worry, Freyr?”

“Not on my part,” he says. “And though we are loyal to crown and court and realm – unquestionably–”

“It cannot be questioned,” Freyja says.

“–this oath was for your ears in particular.”

“It is noted,” Thor says, endeavoring not to show his confusion, just as Sif thankfully reaches the bar and places a hand on his shoulder. She says, “Regretfully, I must steal our prince away. There are matters to which he must attend.”

The two blink in unison, and share a strange glance. “Of course,” Freyja says, and Freyr echoes, “Of course.”

Sif takes his hand, about to lead them away, when Freyja says, “If that is not the oddest thing.” Thor glances at her; she stares at Thor and Sif's joined hands. “I could swear that Idunn said–”

“Freyja!” Freyr gasps, sounding horrified.

“Whatever is wrong?”

“You were about to say something rude. We've talked of this. No more, eh?”

“Rude? Freyr, you do not even know what I meant to say.” Freyr taps his ear, and Freyja dutifully leans close to whisper in it. She quickly pulls away, saying, “Ah. Yes. Oh dear. Now that I hear the words spoken, yes, quite rude. My thanks, Freyr.”

Freyr is still admonishing his sister when Thor and Sif slip away, hand in hand.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Revised chapter posted August 2014.**

_Within the Mirror_

When Loki opens his eyes, returned from another night enduring Baldur's insufferably pleasant company, Fandral meets his gaze from the other side of the mirror. The Asgardian too is laying down, near the mirror, flushed and unusually disheveled – blond hair in disarray, garments crooked and stained, his movements clumsy when he lifts a slim bottle to his lips and takes a long pull, heedless of how half the liquid misses his mouth and pours down his neck to pool on the floor.

“Finally,” he rasps, syllables slurred. “You sleep like the dead. A thousand horrible deaths could've met you and you would not have noticed one of them.”

How Loki has come to long for the days of isolation – just him and the gatekeeper and the four close walls of his cage and his own spiraling madness. Before he met the elder Odinson and all became so absurdly _complicated_. Now if it is not Fandral and Volstagg come to jeer and belittle, it is Sif come to stare; and if not her, then the traitorous Herzad and Herzula – now known as Freyja and Freyr, as they seek incessantly to remind one another – come to sit in a triangle with him, all three of them with their arms crossed at the elbows and on each set of joined hands mirrored cuts pressed together; and if not those unsettling siblings, then the All-Father with some useless task he could accomplish in any of a thousand ways and yet seemingly out of pity calls upon his pet Jötun to complete. And if none of them then still each night or early morning Loki must seek out Baldur, who'd wailed and _wailed_ until Loki could've gladly pierced his own eardrums the first night after the first night he'd neglected to show.

And he can to none of them spill his own secrets, lest even more of his plans fall to even greater ruin, but oh how he misses when the gatekeeper was a welcome repository into which Loki could unburden all. He has finally trained himself out of the habit of speaking his thoughts aloud, after months and years of slipping and reverting to his old ways. The gatekeeper may yet spill all to the All-Father – who, Loki is learning, has surrounded himself with broken, lost, deceitful men indebted to him. Heimdall's history with the All-Father is one Loki dearly wishes to know.

“You're not even listening, damn you!” Fandral shouts. Loki just turns over to face away from the mirror. Surely at this point Loki's inattention cannot cause Fandral surprise? But Loki realizes that, for once, Fandral is not speaking about him. Sitting up and finally studying the Asgardian, who has begun to haltingly pace the vault so that he wanders in and out of Loki's line of sight while still taking long pulls of his drink, Loki actually listens.

“I cannot stand it, Jötun – or whatever you are! I _love_ her. I have loved her since I was young and I have only grown more in love since and I have endeavored to show her and prove my devotion in every way of which I know and still – and still – and still! She has only ever eyes for him. And I have tried to move past her. I have. I swear it!”

He stumbles, arms thrown around one of the columns to steady himself. “He said he loved her not, Jötun,” Fandral continues, addressing the column and poking it emphatically with a finger, while from across the vault Loki watches, puzzled. “He said – he said – he said he loved her as companion only and not as lover and would not take as lover she whom he only loved as companion. Hah! Oh I hope it is his word that is not good rather than that his heart has changed.”

Curious despite his loathing of this Asgardian, Loki begins to say, “What–” but he is instantly cut off.

“Shut your mouth, Jötun! I am speaking not to you!” Fandral shouts at the column, backhanding it and then gasping at the pain and cradling his hand to his chest. Loki quickly interjects more in the hopes that Fandral will keep slapping the column, but he seems no longer to be listening. Pity.

Fandral slides once more to the floor and leans despondently against the column. “I wish I could hate him – and I do, in a way, but not in the way I would hate him were he any other man. But I love him. I love my lovely Sif and I love my lovely Thor. He is my future king, my now beloved prince, my companion and dear, dear friend. Any command of his I would gladly and wholly follow – I would follow him to any corner of these realms and trust him to lead me back – and should we ever not return, I would follow my Valkyrie guide knowing that if my prince could not return us than return was impossible. But this? I cannot…I cannot stand idly by while he takes that warrior woman I love into his bed. Oh what if it is his heart and not his mind he's changed. Damn it all!”

Loki curls his fingers into the snow, as laid low by Fandral's tongue as ever but not in the usual manner. It took longer than Loki'd anticipated, then, for Thor to mourn no more for his lost Ikol.

Good.

That is good, correct? That is what Loki had wanted – no more need for farewells between them.

Though none of the All-Father's tasks have again entailed that choice between life and the release of death, and though given the chance Loki would no longer even contemplate choosing death, it is good. That he will not need to have the Odinson on his mind when whatever blade next falls toward him. That he need no longer feel any residual guilt for his future schemes against the Odinson, nor worry any longer that he might ever again be tempted from his sorcery. It is good. It is.

_So soon, though?_

Without entirely meaning to, Loki asks, hesitantly, “Thor and the Lady Sif are mated?” Just to ensure he hasn't misunderstood.

Staggering to his feet and finally noticing Loki is across the room, Fandral shouts, “Shut up! Damn you, shut up!” and throws the bottle at Loki. Loki ducks and it lands, skidding, behind him in the snow.

For some reason, the act appears to have focused Fandral, who is staring at Loki with his mouth agape. It is not the usual mocking stare.

“What?” Loki snaps, unsettled.

Shaking his head, Fandral treads hesitantly forward, and then he warily presses a hand through the mirror before snatching it back. His expression is, if possible, even more dumbfounded.

“I'm not returning your bottle,” Loki says, in case this is the cause for Fandral's consternation. “You threw it at my head and now it is mine.” This is more than Loki has ever said to Fandral – usually the elder Odinson is present, and Loki would not want him to recognize Loki's voice. Loki is not so ready to play that hand, not any more.

“Giselric said…” Fandral trails off and once more places a hand through the mirror. “Giselric said that only the All-Father could cross the mirror.” He turns his hand over, apparently fascinated with how the mirror bisects it.

That is preposterous. Hogun himself has once or twice pulled Loki through. He knows full well any could pass through from the vault side of the mirror. Though…is this why the Asgardians have never attempted physical assault – they assumed it impossible? Does this put Loki, however slightly, in Hogun's debt? How appalling.

Fandral makes a strange noise, and Loki meets his stunned gaze and not just realizes but _comprehends_ , stomach dropping, that for this reason only his abuses have been merely verbal. Scrambling to his feet, Loki swiftly forms weapons in his hands, breath quickening, tense and waiting. He will defend himself, he will!

Fandral pulls back his hand and slides his fingers through his hair. “ _Now_ you show fear. Oh, good show. No witnesses but me and here you are finally afraid and – unbelievable. You _are_ just a child Jötun, are you not? Nothing more. You could not reveal this before I lost my body weight in coin? I cannot recall the last tavern I entered where every round was not on me.”

Still tense and not bothering to follow Fandral's nonsensical rambles, Loki keeps his weapons formed. He is ready. And the tiniest, slightest bit frightened. He does not actually know this Asgardian's skill, but if it is half of that which Thor and Baldur both have boasted…More importantly, Loki does not, truthfully, know his own.

“Would you stop that? I'm not going to attack you.” When Loki does not move, Fandral throws out his arms, nearly unbalancing himself, and says, “Or stay absolutely still. What do I care what you do?”

“Why should I believe you?” Loki says.

“Why, why, why,” Fandral sighs, and he slides back to the floor, this time leaning against the mirror frame. “We'd been wondering what a Jötun could possibly be doing here and getting no where and it was a wager, you see. To – make you reveal yourself. Everyone wagered against me. Sif just because – as if she cannot say such things as make grown men cry! And Volstagg thought you probably do not understand half of what we say in any matter.”

“Thor?” Loki prompts, when Fandral trails off again.

“Hmmm? Oh, he thinks Jötnar are not cowed by verbal threat. Need force. Perhaps he is right, given,” Fandral holds up his own hands, and gestures to Loki's still-formed weapons. “But you wouldn't _react_ and I kept losing. You're like a – a – a bird, fluttering in a cage, and no matter what I threw you fluttered unconcerned to a different perch. Barely noticed. It is depressing, Jötun, when the enemy you fear does not in return fear you. And now it is for nothing. Thor bid us not return to bother you any longer and my wager would be won save there was no one here to witness it.”

At this, Loki finally dissolves his weapons. He says, “The Odinson bid this?”

“The Odinson bid this,” Fandral mimics. “Yes. Something of our last visit disturbed him. He said no more and would not say why.”

Loki thinks over the details of that visit, but all of the visits blur and nothing in particular jumps at him. How had it been different from any other?

“Why come, then?” Loki says. “You said you'd follow anything he bid and here you are blatantly doing the opposite.”

Fandral hiccups and glances at him side-eyed. “Damn you, you _are_ clever, aren't you? Giselric said as much. Why could he not be wrong about that, also? Won't make it any easier to sleep at night, the thought that you and your people are clever, too. Isn't it enough that you tower over us and are as unyielding as mountains? Damn it.”

His head lolls back against the frame, and he scratches idly at his stomach. Unexpectedly, he offers an honest answer. “I could not hold this grief in my heart unvoiced and unheard, and to whom else but a locked away Jötun could I have spoken that word would not have eventually reached Thor's ears? He would not be angry. That is the worst of it. Here I have said plainly I hate him and he would merely gaze upon me with sorrow and he would no doubt _apologize_ and how could I do that to the man whom I also love?”

For a long while, Fandral lolls against the frame until he seems to drift asleep. Loki retrieves the bottle and studies its contents. The smell burns his nostrils.

“What is this drink?” he asks.

“Drink,” Fandral answers, sitting up with a start. “The finest, strongest absinthe this side of Nidavellir. Give it here.” He holds his hand through the mirror.

Loki considers first Fandral and then the bottle. He tips it so the liquid begins slowly trickling into the snow.

Fandral gasps and clutches a hand to his breast. “Do not! Stop at once! Of all the cruel things of which I thought you capable, this I had not even contemplated!”

Loki rights the bottle but does not return it. “You threw this at my head meaning to strike, and it is still the kindest thing you've thrown at me. If you want it back, you'll have to retrieve it yourself, and know I am not in a mood to forgive those who have in the past wronged me.”

Fandral chuckles, long and low. “Though it would pain me that an unappreciative Jötun would put his lips to that bottle, it pains me less than the thought of it washed away untasted. So keep it and enjoy it with my – with my,” he clears his throat and says softly, “with my thanks.”

He stands unsteadily and holds his hand over the mirror frame. He pauses a long moment, and then, “What did you do to justify this imprisonment?”

“I am Jötun, as you so _cleverly _ascertained,” Loki says. “Is that to you not itself justification?”__

Fandral stares at him a moment longer. Then, “Do you have a name?”

“Of course I do,” Loki says. “You may not have it.”

Fandral nods and says, “Then I will do as my beloved prince commands and say forever farewell.” He brushes his hand against the frame so that the vault disappears from sight.

Loki is glad he waits until the Asgardian is gone before tasting the liquid. He takes a long pull, which he immediately spits on the ground, coughing and gagging, and then he spends what feels like a hundred miserable hours drinking from the lake until his throat no longer burns.

* * *

_Outside the Mirror_

Baldur draws as he recounts Thor's latest adventure to an unresponsive, sulking Loki. He traces the sharp, jagged angles of the volcano as he describes the treacherous ascent – the five-headed guard beasts lurking in hidden caves, with glowing green eyes and fire on their breath, the unmarked trail, the heaviness of Múspellsheimr's heat.

He sketches the intricate metal bows and flaming arrows given to each challenger who successfully made the climb and so gained entry to the yearly competition; Volstagg had said he'd burned his hands half-way to the summit, and the distraction had had him at the mercy of a fire-beast, but Fandral had turned around and fended it off while Sif–

“Sif?” Loki interrupts. Baldur starts, smearing the detail on the arrowhead he's currently sketching. It is the first Loki has spoken for what seems _forever_. Loki had arrived one evening in a terrible, black mood, ignoring Baldur's every attempt at conversation. Ignoring _Baldur_. He'd hummed wordlessly and tunelessly when Baldur had climbed into bed, and Baldur's nights since have been restless and full of unpleasant dreams.

So Baldur has spent the evenings – which _should've_ been spent in easy companionship with his prickly ghost – drawing in silence, or studying, or retelling Thor's adventures since Loki still refuses to meet Thor and so hear them firsthand.

“Yes, Sif,” Baldur says. “She is one of Thor's companions. I have mentioned her before.”

“Tell me of her.”

Baldur stares at Loki, but he cannot discern from Loki's blank expression any reason for this unprecedented interest in anything to do with Thor or Thor's companions. Rummaging through his papers, Baldur finds a rough portrait of Sif and holds it up for Loki to examine.

“She is brave and smart and beautiful,” he says. He studies the drawing alongside Loki – Sif's dark, lovely eyes, her shining golden hair, her silver warrior's armor. “Do you not think her beautiful?” Baldur asks, wondering how the Asgardians appear to Jötun eyes.

“I think her _hideous_ ,” Loki snaps. “I think her a harbinger of terrible fates.” Then he presents his back to Baldur and resumes his silent sulk.

That is the silliest thing Baldur has ever heard. After a moment's pause, he replaces the portrait among his secret collection of artwork and resumes his sketch and his story. He tells of Ullr's archery tournament and draws what he imagines the sky must've looked like cut through with fiery arrows, while the competitors balanced on small stone sleds wobbling in the pool of lava. He tells of Thor's victory, and sketches the wreath carved of marble Ullr had placed on Thor's brow.

Loki's sulks have never before lasted so long. Baldur will allow it to continue for this night, but tomorrow he will demand Loki explain himself. So decided, he does not even protest when Loki leaves with barely a hummed tune and not a word.

Except Loki will not explain, and his sulking does not abate but only grows darker. It takes a certain amount of patience and pestering each night, but eventually Loki responds when Baldur asks how Sif could be anything's ruin.

“Sif and Thor are mated,” Loki says.

“Mated?” Baldur repeats, taken aback. “I – yes. If you mean they are together, then yes, that is true. But how could you possibly know that?”

“I am a _ghost_ ,” Loki sniffs. “I know more than you could imagine. Can see what you cannot. Thor ought have _nothing_ to do with Sif.”

“That is absurd,” Baldur says.

“Then let all come to ruin,” Loki says. “What care I? The worst has already befallen me. It is only you poor living who will suffer.”

That cannot be true. Surely nothing but good could come from a union between them? “You're lying,” Baldur says.

Loki's eyes narrow dangerously, and with that the days of silent sulking are gone. They are replaced by evenings of angry, hissing rants in languages Baldur does not know, recognizing no words other than _Sif_ and _Thor_. The still back turned to Baldur replaced by restless, furious pacing. The tuneless hums replaced with dreadful, cruel hymns. He pays no attention to the various prizes in Baldur's rooms, stolen at Loki's past requests.

When Baldur is at wit's end, unable to even concentrate on his drawing with Loki's furious presence behind him – unable to concentrate without Loki crowding his space and making disparaging remarks on Baldur's skill as he should be doing – Baldur pulls out his portrait of Sif.

A terrible thought occurs.

What if Loki is right?

What if he _can_ see things that Baldur cannot? If there is some harm in his brother's relationship with Sif? Thor, now that Baldur thinks on it, has not seemed particularly _happy_ lately. And never has so black a mood taken Loki and lasted for so long.

Baldur could find a way to end things between Thor and Sif. Perhaps then Loki would be appeased and whatever disaster averted and Baldur's life returned to how it had been before.

A knife is hidden underneath Baldur's desk, one of the many knives hidden through his chambers at Thor's insistence. Although Baldur uses his drawing as an outlet for Seidr, he is aware that there are other ways. Loki, mocking Baldur's Seidr – though he called it sorcery – has previously attempted to teach such ways.

Baldur places the knife on his desk and stares at it.

What if, for once, Loki is telling the truth?

* * *

Morning is still far off when Thor wakes. Sif is beside him on the bed on her belly, one hand resting on his chest and her soft breath tickling his neck. Slipping carefully out of the blankets, hoping not to disturb her, he moves her hand and places it beside her head and brushes a kiss against her lips. She murmurs wordlessly, curling deeper into the blankets.

Throwing on his discarded trousers, Thor soundlessly opens the balcony doors and steps outside, leaning against the railing. Her balcony is smaller than his, the view not as wide-flung, and the slight drizzle of rain patters against the stone floor.

He should be glowing and lighthearted, to have the brave and beautiful Sif in his bed, and instead all he can do is brood. For too long Thor has stood still, searching for a ghost who has long abandoned him.

Thor had stood still while Volstagg danced around and one day with his barmaid, both of them smitten and beaming. Stood still while Fandral abandoned his infatuation with Sif and charmed half the women of Asgard, in particular the Lady Sigyn whose bed he is ever finding himself invited to and thrown out of again. Stood still while Sif sent him soft looks she bestowed upon no one else when she believed his attention elsewhere, looks that mirrored the ones Thor's mother still sends his father.

Again and again unrequited love and love requited surrounding him, and he'd thought that he could never be with someone who did not love him utterly and that he could never harm that person by taking them into his heart and bed knowing he didn't love them utterly in return.

And the dreams. Every night those dreams of Ikol, tall and wicked and strong in his arms but soft against him. Innocent dreams, at first, when Ikol first left him – just his arm around Ikol's shoulders or his nose pressed to Ikol's hair. Dreams that grew less innocent and more heated as Thor grew more desperate, and Thor has woken up more mornings than he can count flushed and aroused and his head full of thoughts of having Ikol in every way it is possible to have another person.

But he could not forever avoid the truth that should he keep chasing this elusive dream, the _absolute_ , utter most he could ever, ever have is to finally find a grave at which to pay his respects.

Though he thinks it would've been less painful to cut out his entire heart, it had been time to stop mourning. It had been time to move on.

He's already felt along underneath the railing and curled his fingers around the dagger hilt before his mind catches up with his well-trained body and he knows someone is in Sif's chambers. Easing to the balcony entranceway, barely breathing, Thor peers around the corner and sees – a boy. Baldur.

Tension uncoiling, Thor replaces the knife, wondering what could've brought Baldur here at this hour. Though Thor is unsure precisely what stays him, he does not immediately make his presence known to his brother. Something in Baldur's furrowed brow and the agitation in his gait sends an uneasy feeling through Thor, and he does not question his own instincts.

Baldur halts beside the bed, Thor assumes expecting to see him. But Baldur focuses on Sif and just watches her. Thor barely understands his little brother any more. When his mother told Thor that he would have to watch idly by while Baldur made mistake after mistake, why had he not heeded her? Thor hates the helplessness he feels each time another stolen something is found under Baldur's bed, at each Jötun battle-cry screamed joyfully through the halls. Those friends of his seem only to enable him.

Thor almost – almost – does not see the glint of metal in time. He almost moves a moment too slow.

Baldur does not see, as he fists Sif's hair in one hand and holds out the knife in the other. Thor does – the minute tensing of Sif's bare back as she wakes and senses a weapon nearby. How she slides a hand under her pillow, pulls out the hidden dagger, and slashes her arm back and out, just as Baldur slashes his knife up through her hair – and just as Thor dashes forward, grabbing the neck of Baldur's tunic and wrenching him back.

Baldur stumbles backwards to the floor and blinks up at Thor, his knife skittering away and his chest heaving. A shallow red line slashes his neck, and a few drops of blood begin to sluggishly drip.

Thor's mind is barely caught up, fixated. Even a moment slower and–

“ _Baldur_!” Thor thunders, just as Sif gasps a stunned, “ _Baldur_? What–?” Then she cries out, falling back to the bed, and she starts screaming as the ends of her shortened locks catch strange, green fire that travels swiftly up to her scalp. Baldur takes the opportunity to scramble to his feet, vault over the bed, throw open the chamber doors, and sprint out into the hallways. The doors are still banging open and shut when Thor reaches them and roars, “A physician! Now!” before dashing back to the bed.

“Sif, Sif, oh my Sif,” he murmurs, hovering over her, his hands on her cheeks and his thumbs brushing away her tears as she arches and writhes and screams.

“Thor, I cannot – it is agony!” Then she falls abruptly limp, the fire turning to wisps of smoke and then gone with the same suddenness with which it erupted.

Her short, jagged hair is stringy and dull brown, the tips singed ash black, but her skin is unblemished – no blackened flesh, no angry burns, no blood.

“By Yggdrasil, I have never known such agony!” she whispers. “Thor – what happened? Was – was Baldur here?” Her eyes widen. “Did I–” She struggles to sit up but Thor holds her firmly down, unwilling to risk anything until the physicians finally arrive and proclaim her as fit as Thor's eyes tell him she is.

“Baldur is fine,” he says shortly. Now is not the time to contemplate the blood at his brother's neck, not when – “Sif, it hurts you no longer?”

“As if the pain never was,” she says.

She raises her hands to feel along her head, but Thor folds her hands in his before she can and presses them to his chest.

Finally the physicians rush in and Thor directs them to Sif. While they fuss over her, Thor finds Baldur's dropped knife and turns it over in his hands. It hums with dark, foreign Seidr.

“Why would he do such a thing?” she asks.

Pocketing the knife, Thor says, “I mean to know.” He takes off through the doors – though it feels like ages since seeing those green flames, Baldur has a head start of merely a handful of minutes. Dashing through the hallways, Thor spots Baldur in the dining hall – empty at this late hour – but Baldur is on the other side and steals through the kitchens. Thor ducks into the servant halls and nearly cuts Baldur off at the stables, but Baldur leaps over the fences and makes for the markets. Baldur knocks over carts and weaves in and out of stalls, while Thor pounds after him, both of them stumbling into and around the few stragglers wandering the never truly asleep streets.

Thor tackles him, finally, in a chicken coop, rolling over and over and Baldur struggling before finally falling resentfully still in Thor's unyielding grip. The chickens squawk and flutter while the Odinsons both spit straw from their mouths. Baldur crawls forward so he can lean against the back wall. He wraps his arms around his drawn knees and will not look at Thor. “I am not sorry and I will not say I am,” he mutters, voice muffled as he speaks into his elbow.

“You will and you will be,” Thor says, but wearily. Here he is attempting to outrun thought itself and he's been winded chasing his little brother. Thor would have a mind to be proud of how swift and resourceful Baldur is becoming if he weren't so betrayed – nor worried for Sif. He settles next to Baldur, who pointedly scoots over so there is distinct space between them.

Thor turns the Seidr-stained knife over in his hands, waiting.

“I hate her,” Baldur says.

“Then your change of heart must be recent. Last I knew you adored her and she you.”

“Fine,” Baldur snaps. He tosses a handful of straw at Thor's face. “I do not hate her but I hate what she's done. Everything was fine and then you began going to her rooms and it's upsetting everyone and making – making everyone angry and resentful and sad. And it will – it will come to no good, and I don't know why and I don't care but I cannot stand it and I thought – everyone says she is the loveliest woman in the all the realms and I thought if she were ugly to you everything would return to how it was.”

Thor sighs, leaning his head back against the wall. A handful of chickens have settled in a loose half-circle around them, clucking and cocking their heads. It should not surprise him that Fandral knows, but Fandral is with Sigyn now. Surely he no longer pines for Sif? “I never meant harm to Fandral, but he should not be unburdening his grievances to you, and you–”

“Not _Fandral_ ,” Baldur mutters, but when Thor asks, “Then whom?” he snaps his mouth shut.

“Baldur, do you really believe if Sif were bald – and wrinkled and fat and whatever else you might imagine – she would be any less the loveliest woman in our realm? There is a reason she is the only woman Branthoc has ever agreed to train as warrior, and it is not because her hair is golden.”

“I know,” Baldur says, still muttering into his elbow. “…It did not work, then? You still desire her?”

Thor holds the knife in front of Baldur's face. “Where did you learn to do this? This is not child's Seidr, Baldur.”

“Don't remember,” Baldur says with a short shrug.

“I see,” Thor says. He reaches a hand over and tilts Baldur's head up, ignoring Baldur's arms flailing to knock him back. Good. The cut is as shallow as Thor had first though. A moment's hesitation, though…

“What am I going to do with you, brother mine?” Thor says.

And then he knows, precisely, the answer.

Standing and brushing off the stray straw and feathers clinging to his trousers, Thor holds out a hand to Baldur. Baldur, who mutters something no doubt scathing into his elbow, sits up and accepts the hand. Then Thor casually wraps an arm around Baldur's waist and throws his brother over his shoulder. Ignoring Baldur's squawk to match the chickens now flailing in confused circles around his feet, Thor heads out of the coop. Baldur is still slapping Thor's back and swearing – and when did he learn to talk like that? – when they enter Idunn's forests and Thor follows the echoed humming until he finds the woman herself.

Willow-thin and with arms that a slight wind should be able to snap in half, she has an old oak – four times her thickness around and its height easily twice hers – held over one shoulder as effortlessly as he holds his squirming brother. She glows in the moonlight – seems to glitter equal to that of the apples on the trees around them.

“Hail, Idunn,” Thor calls.

“What a delight, both young princes come to visit!” she says, easily settling the tree down beside her as Thor places Baldur at his feet. Baldur crosses his arms and sticks out his tongue at Thor, but thankfully he must know better than to run.

Before Thor can explain their presence, Idunn says, “Just a moment. Your being here is fortuitous. I have a much belated gift for my fine one-day king.” She leaves and returns swiftly, holding out to Thor a perfect, silver apple.

“With my congratulations,” Idunn says. “I hope you do not mind that I'd avoided the palace at the time – I am not much for pageantry, as you must know. And since then it simply has kept slipping my mind. But know how pleased I am for you and yours.”

“Yes, thank you,” Thor says, hardly in a mood after the evening's events to decipher Idunn's madness. “But I am here also with good news. Baldur has volunteered to tend your gardens.”

“I did no such–” Baldur manages before Thor slaps his free hand over Baldur's mouth.

Idunn beams. “What wonderful news! Come, then, my young lord. I already know just where we shall begin.”

Baldur gapes, resisting Thor's unsubtle nudges for him to move forward. “ _Now_? What do you mean volunteer? Thor?”

“In the future, you'll get an earlier start,” Thor says.

“I'll be back?”

“Every afternoon.”

“What? _Every_ – for how long?”

“Until you apologize to Sif,” Baldur opens his mouth, “And mean it sincerely,” and Baldur's mouth closes.

“You cannot make me,” Baldur says. Idunn hauls the tree back onto her shoulder with one hand and uses the other to grab hold of Baldur's. She nods to Thor and leads Baldur away as he still sputters and throws Thor beseeching glances over his shoulder.

“And no chit-chat,” Thor calls to him. “Idunn does not prefer chit-chat.” He hears Baldur's groan just before the soft rise of Idunn's humming as the two disappear into the forest.

When he returns to Sif, she is sitting before her vanity, glumly sifting fingers through her dull hair. Clumps pull away at each pass. He wraps his arms around her shoulders and rests his cheek against hers. “You are unharmed?”

“The physicians say not even a trace of Seidr lingers,” she says. “Only my dignity suffers.”

“You realize you are still the loveliest woman I have ever laid eyes upon? No enchantment in all the realms could change that.”

“Kind of you to say, but I meant that I allowed a child to sneak up on me,” she says dryly. A pause, and then she asks, “May I tell you a secret?”

“Anything,” he says.

“I think I am not meant to be content.” She brushes off more strands that have come easily away from her scalp, grimacing. “If I were meant to be, would I not have been born a man so that following my true passion as a warrior is not every day a struggle, since as a woman I must be _better_ to be regarded as even half as good? Or would I not have fallen madly for Fandral as he fell for me – as I fear he still is fallen, no matter his posturing? Or would I not – would I not have fallen for you, as despite _your_ posturing you still pine for some lost love you have never even named for us? Or else would I still have fallen for you but you also for me? If I were meant to be content,” she sighs again and will not meet his reflection's gaze in the vanity. “Would I have truly fallen for you and not the idea of you? If we shared a bed and a life I fear we would together always be alone.”

“I love you, Sif,” he says simply, kissing her shoulder. “Tell me what I may do that would make you content. I cannot stand that you think you could never be so.”

“Who is she?” Sif asks. When he hesitates, she says, “Come now. I have just spilled all and I am already queasy that I have. You cannot give the slightest in return?”

“A ghost,” he says finally.

She snorts inelegantly. “Have it your way, Thor. No, it is fine, truly,” she says, just as he is mustering the courage to say more. “I did not truly expect an answer. I do not – I do not truly want one. There is nothing, Thor. This is nothing you can do. Did Baldur say why?”

“Because he could not stand unhappiness,” Thor says.

Sif tolerates his embrace for a moment longer. Then, “I would that we are never parted, Thor,” she says. “But I would that right now you leave me to my own sad thoughts.”

He squeezes her shoulders and says, “You are sure?”

“Please.”

A last kiss to her cheek, and Thor takes his leave as bid. On his way to his own lonely chambers, he thinks about love and what it means to never know it. And about the paper-owl fluttering in the Jötun's thin blue hands.

* * *

_Within the Mirror_

The Odinson keeps him stewing in curiosity for ages. When he finally deigns to show, alone for once and expression neutral, Loki has long since ceased counting days and scrutinizing Fandral's words and resigned himself to always wondering what changed the Odinson's heart. Loki pointedly presents his back.

The Odinson shifts and stares at him, and Loki wonders if he will now have to endure the Odinson's silent regard in place of Sif's. But the Odinson says, “I know you do not generally heed me, but I am here with peaceful purpose. If I speak now, will you listen?”

Loki traces idle patterns in the snow, doing nothing to indicate he'd listened even to these words.

“It is a strange thing,” the Odinson says. “How it is always the smallest details. The most easily overlooked.” Loki's back stiffens. Does the Odinson _know_? “There was a bird in your hands. Small – an owl. It fluttered in your cupped hands the whole while we were here.”

The birds? Frowning, unsure what significance this can possibly have and wary of a trick, Loki turns half around to face the mirror and holds out his palm, conjuring the little paper-owl. Just something to focus on. Briefly alleviate his ever-boredom.

“Yes! That's what I saw!” He's fixated on the not-owl, and when Loki can stand his own curiosity no further, he shifts his vocal chords to mask his voice and says, “Obviously you and yours require only the slightest, crudest entertainments to be entertained, but even this ought embarrass you.”

“No, it is not – it is _Seidr_ , yes? You still have your Seidr about you.”

“It is sorcery,” Loki says, forgetting to be discreet. “And of course I do. It is mine and it will _be_ mine until I am dead.”

“So it is not a myth.” Thor watches the owl for a long moment. Then he asks, “Why? Why do you keep it? Why do _all Jötnar_ keep it?”

“I have not the faintest notion what you're blathering about.” Loki says. “What myth?”

“That of all the realms, the people of Jötunheimr alone hoard their Seidr their entire lives. That they do not allow themselves to know true love.”

“What has one to do with the other?”

Thor is aghast. “They are the same. Seidr is merely love ill-used. You do not know this?”

One of the monastery books from years and years ago had mentioned something of that. Baldur would babble something to that effect as well from time to time, not that Loki would admit he ever heeded anything that brat said. “That is nonsense,” Loki scoffs. “Sorcery has naught to do with love.” Sorcery is harsher than that, crueler and more powerful. It is about ownership and _possession_. Even children know this. The Odinson should be embarrassed for his ignorance.

“It is true,” Thor insists. “Of all realms it is true. All realms, all peoples, except for the wielders of the rain and the ice and the snow on cold Jötunheimr.”

What has the rain and the ice and the snow to do with sorcery? “If you truly believe this, then your comprehension of sorcery is laughable. Embarrassing. Whatever meager amount of intelligence I thought you possessed, you've halved my generous estimation.”

Surprisingly, Thor does not immediately meet Loki's anger. He says, calmly though his brow is furrowed in frustration, “I want to understand. I want to understand how – how all of you can _stand_ it.” He stands straight, and seems to force himself to settle into a patience Loki has never before seen him attempt. It reminds Loki abruptly of the All-Father, and the resemblance causes Loki to seethe.

“How _noble_ of you,” he sneers. Then, recalling something from one of the many books he's consumed, “What of those precious humans you Asgardians fawn over, hmmm? They have not the capacity for sorcery at all, so by your logic are born also without love. Do you sigh and fret over them as well? Believe yourself _better_ than them?”

But Thor just shakes his head. “They are the only ones of all peoples in all the Universe born already with pure love in their hearts. They are truly blessed. Perhaps that is why they are also the most fragile of all peoples. Is that not why your people loathe them? Do you not realize this is why _all_ peoples, even ones that do not usually agree on even which direction the sky is, detest Jötunheimr for attempting war on them?”

The Odinson lays a hand against the mirror surface and leans forward, and Loki stares as the hand does not pass through. He'd thought that anyone on that side of the mirror ought be able to reach in. Why not the Odinson? Loki mentally sorts through years and years of his theories on the mirror's functions and purpose and workings, and not one is equipped to explain why all so far but the elder Odinson can pass through. Why must he always, _always_ be the exception to the certainties in Loki's life? It is maddening, even to a mad creature.

“What are you blathering about now?” Loki snaps, since Thor had kept speaking – unaware of the turmoil he's caused.

The Odinson sighs. “I am explaining that I know what I am saying for fact. I have – I _know_ what it means to gladly use Seidr only for the purpose of pure, true love.”

Ah, yes. Because Loki is in a mood to listen to the Odinson sigh over his lady Sif. Loki conjures a raven to fly around and squawk at the owl already fluttering in his palms. The squawks are more appealing sounds than the Odinson saying, “It is everything, Jötun. Every creature – even you – should have the opportunity to know it. Your brethren back on your home have this choice and reject it. But that you are condemned to be here alone and never have that choice – that is the saddest thing I have ever known.”

“Hah!” Loki cannot help but laugh, ruthlessly ignoring the hum of a distant melody reminding him that he is not alone at all. “How cosseted must one be to think that?”

“I know there are _worse_ things,” the Odinson says. “Horrific, terrible things. But those are worse things. I am speaking of the brightest. Love is what makes the others tolerable. Else how would we suffer our external existence?”

“This is what I am hearing as you speak,” Loki says, gesturing to his birds and conjuring even more to squawk and squabble. “No, actually, there is more reason to their chatter.”

“I know not what war crimes condemn you to this cage, but I know now you must have been terribly young when they were committed, and that you would never have had the opportunity – if Jötnar are hated because they are heartless, and by heartless I mean willingly loveless, having no love for any but themselves, such a way of living is contemptible. But if by loveless I mean _without_ love, not even for one of their own – that way of living is to be pitied. I want,” he traces fingers along the mirror surface, and for a moment seems to speak more to himself than to Loki, “I do not want any creature to be denied love. _Any_ creature. I wish to help you.”

Still concentrating on the now seventeen small birds flitting around him, chasing one another in wide circles, Loki says, “If you are offering to fuck me, know I am uninterested. Your Asgardian form sickens me.” He studiously pushes years' worth of pleasing, lustful dreams from his mind, in which his dream self did not very much mind the Asgardian form at all.

“What?” Thor stammers. Some of the patience slides off of the Odinson's shoulders, and Loki does not bother to hide his smirk. “No! I am not speaking of _sex_ – though they are of course intertwined. I am speaking of _love_. Are you listening at all?”

“No, you are waxing poetic of the _wondrous_ feel of your cock sliding into a warm orifice.”

Loki wishes he were more knowledgeable that he could be cruder, enough to make the Odinson blush red in addition to sputter, enough to compel him away so Loki needn't hear of his true, pure love for Sif. His knowledge, alas, is limited. In Jötunheimr, his penchant for tall places and his people's for open spaces meant as a child he'd been unfortunate witness to scores of couplings. There were the handful of scandalous passages in some of the books the Odinson used to read to him – both of them wide-eyed. He'd gleaned a little from some of Fandral's more choice remarks.

And his actual experience, well…The one time he'd given in to the compelling stirrings coursing through him, he'd been laying down, back arched, feet planted on the ground and toes curled in the snow, three fingers of one hand deep in his cunt and the other hand wrapped around his cock, when he'd sensed too late the mirror turn to entranceway. Freezing, Loki had only time to meet Sif's flustered expression, hear her say the only words she'd ever spoken during her silent visits – “Oh my, I didn't realize, I – I – I – I'm so sorry,” and some other stuttering, before she'd slammed a hand against the mirror frame and Loki was left with his own flushed, horrified reflection.

He is not sure which of them had turned deeper red, but all Loki could think had been, _What if it had been the All-Father?_ He'd have had to kill himself, if experiencing the incident hadn't itself done the trick. And cascading over that thought had been, _the gatekeeper_ could _see_ , and needless to say Loki, should he live to be an eon, will never touch himself again.

“Fine,” Loki says, cutting off whatever irritatingly reverent description Thor had been spouting. “You wish me to know love now that you believe me without love rather than loveless. But as you before perceived me as loveless, that does explain you and your companions' presence. If I am loveless then only the dregs of your society would lower themselves to visit. So be away, dreg, and send in your place if not the finest Asgard has to offer than at least not the lowest. I shall see if any can sever me from my sorcery. The most of luck in your endeavor. But if you mean to succeed I would that you hover out of my sight, as even a glimpse of you would take from me all thoughts of _love_.”

Thor taps the mirror surface, clearly struggling to keep his expression even. Loki has heard often from Baldur that the elder Odinson's temper is already becoming a thing of legend. So much for patience. “I do not mean to parade you in front of a string of suitors, or – or – that is not – it cannot be so manufactured. I merely – I merely…” He places his fist against the mirror, seems to notice it for a fist, and deliberately uncurls his fingers to rest instead his palm against the surface. “It was a poorly thought-out idea. That is all.”

“So quickly rescinded?” Loki says. “How cruel. First you bid your companions leave me be so I have not their sad antics for entertainment. And now not even this? Very well. I've changed my mind. If it contents you, return to telling me how you sit Sif on your lap and make her beg.”

And the fist is returned! “You'll watch your tongue, Jötun.”

Something rattles behind him, but Loki ignores it.

“Dear me, is pure, true love so fragile that you cannot stand to hear it sullied?”

“Sif is not – never mind.”

Not Sif? Even worse. There were _others_ of whom Loki does not even know. Perhaps this is the true reason he'd refused to be introduced to the Odinson's companions, back when things were sweet and mad – he had had at least the illusion there was no no else for the Odinson just as there had been no one else for him.

“My _apologies_ for the error, Odinson. Please enlighten me of the other whores with whom you've been rutting.”

The rattling sounds again, louder than before. The Odinson grits, “I was extending a kindness, Jötun. I was trying to – to – and I didn't with – You may speak of me how you wish but not those whom I love.”

“Oh I may, may I?” Loki closes his fingers around one of the ravens in his palms, letting the illusion of crushed guts and blood spill down his wrist and forearm and a cloud of black feathers flutter up. “You are too kind. Truly. Then, as likely any of your loves are a reflection of yourself, let me tell you what I think your _reflection_ shows. I see reflected a craven, hideous, creature rife with unearned pride and despicable cowardice that he _attacks_ creatures that cannot attack back, so no doubt must love an empty-headed creature that obeys with unthinking, pitiful obedience–” As he hisses, the rattling grows even louder, not that either of them pays it mind. “Will you tell me of your spineless strumpet that mewls pitifully at your reflection's feet, begging for base affection and a taste of–?”

“Enough!” the Odinson roars, and Loki, though he knows he ought stop, keeps spitting harsh words. Then a pedestal from across the vault crashes over and between one eye-blink and the next that gleaming hammer is in the Odinson's hand and he slams it against the mirror. Jagged cracks spiral outward from the impact and the entire mirror, frame and all, _shudders_ –

Loki stumbles backwards, remaining birds dissolving without a thought and his heart hammering, hands held in front of his face and breath rapid, knowing how easily that could've been his head. That the Odinson meant it to be. The mirror keeps cracking, shaking, and Loki is suddenly dizzy and pained, as if he feels each cracked echoed on his own flesh. What happens to Loki if the mirror breaks while he's trapped inside it? 

The last crack finally splits with a fragile-sounding clink, and then it is only the both of them and their harsh breath and the vault strange and broken, seen incoherently through pieces of the cracked mirror.

“Enough,” the Odinson says, wearily now but still with the shimmering thread of anger below his tone. “Just – enough.” He stares at the hammer as if just noticing its presence in his grip, and then he tosses it to the side – the entire vault shudders at the impact. Without bothering to close off the mirror, the Odinson storms out.

Carefully, warily, Loki creeps forward and presses a hand to the mirror surface. It is rough and jagged and rends his skin as he slides his palms along it, but it holds. Through the broken mirror pieces, he watches the vault and not his own hand sliding over the surface – in particular, the glow of the Casket of Ancient Winters so maddeningly close. He is careful not to outwardly react when he finds it. A slight crack, just barely large enough for him to slip a finger through.

Stepping back from the mirror, Loki conjures another flock of birds. He lays back in the snow, flock of birds fluttering about him and his mind equally all aflutter.

* * *

_Outside the Mirror_

At first, Baldur knows his punishment to be absurd and one Thor has neither the authority nor means to see enforced. Thor is so often elsewhere, after all, and Baldur refuses to feel guilty – it is not as if Baldur did actual _damage_ to Sif. Especially as everything soon returns to how it was.

Everything, that is, other than Baldur's daily punishment. Other than the feeling, deep in the pit of his gut, that he will come to regret his action.

So Baldur decides to humor Thor for a short while, returning each afternoon to Idunn’s forest and dutifully following her commands. He’s heard the tales of Thor’s own years of punishment here, and he knows to hold his tongue and not question Idunn’s whims and not mind the tears that sometimes track down his face when her humming reaches beneath skin to heart and tugs mercilessly. He learns to ignore the strange Freyja and Freyr who laze in the forest and talk in soft whispers to Idunn; though that is made difficult when Freyr sometimes shadows him, standing far too close as Baldur toils.

Loki had thrilled at the news of Sif's ruined hair – had been effusive with his praise in a way he never was, complimenting Baldur’s cleverness and his bravery and his loyalty and demanding Baldur spare not a single detail in his retelling. “Draw for me how she looks with her ruined hair,” he had needled, withholding his lullabies until Baldur had given in. At the time, Baldur had felt surety – he had enchanted the knife with surety and held it confident in his grip. With each stroke of his pen, his surety had faltered.

Brynja and Jordis had turned cold shoulders to Baldur when they'd learn what he had done. They pass him in the palace hallways like he is a stranger to them.

In the evening before Loki is due to arrive, Baldur pulls out the drawing of Sif, her hair singed short, and he feels somewhat a stranger to himself. He loves Thor so much, and he loves Loki equally so, and the belated realization that he has in this matter chosen one of his brothers over the other cuts. But Loki had been so _adamant_. Had spoken so harshly against a relationship between Thor and Sif. There must be a harm there that is simply hidden from Baldur. There must be. Why else would this have mattered so dearly to the ghost?

He'll demand answers; Loki owes him that much.

Except Loki does not show that night.

Baldur waits for him, of course. He draws something cloyingly sweet as punishment for when Loki finally arrives. He stays up far past when he would normally sleep.

But Loki does not show, not that night nor the next nor the one after.

Baldur suffers a string of restless nights, no lullabies to send him to sleep. Of course lullabies are childish. He knows he should have long outgrown them. Knowing does not help him sleep, though.

When Thor and his companions leave Asgard for the river Vimur to join in the giantess’s underwater tournament, Baldur decides enough is enough and does not go that day to the forest. He learns of Thor’s arrival back home a few days later when Thor sneaks up behind him, scoops him up in an iron grip, and carries him – kicking and flailing and screaming – to the forest entrance.

“You cannot make me do this,” he shouts until he is hoarse.

“Apologize to Sif,” he says. At Baldur silence, Thor coaxes, “Tell me _why_. Baldur, this is not like you.”

But Baldur will not. How can he explain when he does not understand himself?

So Baldur keeps silent, and Thor enlists the help of Volstagg and Fandral to keep Baldur to his punishment. And then, for when Thor and his companions are away, he enlists their mother and father, which is horribly unfair and made worse by how amused their parents seem by the entire affair.

With his friends shunning him, and his ghost gone Baldur knows not where, and Thor and his companions always off traveling the realms and taking up every challenge that they come across – and, save for Utgarda's impossible tasks, ever returning victorious – well, Baldur has never before felt quite so _alone_. Idunn's forest is almost welcome respite, and each day he pushes himself a bit harder than before, hoping to exhaust himself.

Each day, though, his toiling begins to feel less and less a punishment and more and more a reprieve. And each day a little of his resentment of the soil and the trees and the humming and the rain melts away. And each day he allows a little more of the forest's presence to wash over him and cocoon him. And then one day he is here and cannot imagine not being here, swaying to the sounds of the forest.

Seated cross-legged on the soil, he leans against the trunk of the nearest tree and closes his eyes and simply breathes and listens. He does not hear Idunn approach, but he feels it. He can feel her gentle hand on his shoulder before she places it there.

“What sorrow, Prince Baldur?”

Squaring his shoulders and shaking his head, Baldur straightens and says that nothing is the matter. Or he means to do so, but instead he remains leaned against the tree and what he speaks is, “I am lonely.”

Idunn tuts. She crouches beside him. “You were humming. An old, sad song.”

“Was I?” Baldur hadn't realized.

“And you draw in the soil,” Idunn says. “Why that drawing?”

Baldur slowly opens his eyes, blinking at her. Following her gaze, he sees the scene that he has been absently drawing through the soil with his fingers. That he must've been tracing for some time, for it is a sprawling, intricate scene – a battle. Armies clashing in a war-torn city under three waning moons. Baldur's vision doubles, seeing two things at once – the indistinct lines and figures that are actually there, for soil is hardly an elegant medium. But also what he _knows_ is there, which is every detail and sound and smell that were present that day, every warrior drawn in complete accuracy down to the insignia on his armor and the scuffs on his boots.

Idunn studies the drawing like she sees both versions, too.

“This is the Fifty Year War,” she says. “These are the Vanir here, are they not?” She gestures to a group of drawn figures. “And these the Asgardians. This is the fifth year of the war, specifically, if I am not mistaken.”

It is. Baldur knows with utter certainty that Idunn is correct. He knows there is detail in his drawing – in his mind – that he never learned in his studies.

“What are you listening to, Baldur?” Idunn asks.

“The song, of course,” Baldur says, when he finds his voice. “Your songs.”

Her gaze is heavy on his face, and she looks at him until Baldur looks back. He listens, but Idunn’s mouth is closed. She has been neither humming nor singing since she crouched down beside him. Eyes wide, Baldur gazes around him and he _listens_.

“There has always been a warrior-king on Asgard's throne,” Idunn says. “And they always bring war. How it makes me despair.” With sudden, startling intensity, she asks, “Have you ever been told the truth of my forest?”

Mute, Baldur shakes his head. Thor has complained enough about its pointlessness and Idunn's refusal to explain to him otherwise.

Idunn leans close and whispers the truth into his ear, but Baldur already knows it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Revised chapter posted August 2014.**

_Álfheimr_

“If not too much contentment than too much the appearance of it,” Radulf would scoff whenever speaking of the Elves of Álfheimr. “If there is dispute it is kept among their own. If their smiths are even capable of forging true weapons, and not merely flimsy, decorative ornaments, I have never seen proof.”

Ambling side by side with his companions through the central markets of the city of Vinyalondë, Thor is tempted to concede Radulf's assessment. Shopkeeper after shopkeeper beams at them with what seems genuine goodwill. Elvish passersby tilt their heads with a sincere, “My lord.” The air is crisp and filled with soft, lilting music and the distant aroma of freshly baked food. No one, not even the children, walks at a pace faster than a stroll.

But there is a reason the markets are the only part of this realm's cities welcome to foreigners, even royal ones, and there is a reason that Radulf's tutelage by itself never encouraged Thor to travel beyond his home. Ikol was the one to motivate Thor to read the ancient accounts filing his chambers, which all speak long, ancient tales of this realm's violence and bloodshed, of deep hidden forests filled with dark beasts and insidious power which could hardly be kept at bay by contentment and flimsy, decorative ornaments. Ikol was the one to say Thor simply must find these negative spaces between the cities and bring him back something wicked. Ikol was the one to help Thor uncover the secret entrances to the realm, and to delight in the stories and prizes and triumphs with which Thor soon returned.

“Such a shame that good Giselric could not join us,” Sigyn says. She and Fandral have their arms around one another's waist, hip to hip, and seem more taken with admiring one another than their surroundings. Thor dearly hopes they stay in such harmony, even though they rarely seem to do so; Fandral deserves happiness, and even when Sigyn and Fandral are quarreling, they bring light into one another.

“Could not?” Volstagg snorts. “ _Would_ not. Not exactly enough excitement for him. The mention of markets and Álfheimr and next to me where he stood was only the dust settling from his haste to escape. Now, had I mentioned a not insignificant chance of violent death ere we return, he would have already been beside Heimdall, tapping his foot.”

“Indeed,” Sigyn says, her lips briefly curving in an amused grin. She nudges Fandral and says, “Such strange company you keep.”

“Strange?” Volstagg says. “Surely you meant to say exciting.”

“Adventurous,” Sif says.

“Daring,” Volstagg says.

“Brave,” Thor says.

“I rather think she meant devastatingly attractive,” Fandral says, nudging her back.

Sigyn laughs. “If by any of those you meant that whenever I see you, you are all covered in wounds and muck and either heading to or returning from the physicians, then yes. I meant exciting and adventurous and brave and daring.”

“And attractive,” Fandral says.

“And attractive,” Sigyn agrees. “Even so, I wish Giselric were here. I wanted to spent time with _all_ of my Fandral's adventurous and attractive companions.”

“Then next time suggest a tournament,” Sif says. She adjusts the golden scarf that now she always wears over her head.

“But I am hardly you, Sif,” Sigyn says. “I haven't the skill to join. I could only watch. And I am afraid I make a poor spectator.”

“Vinyalondë was a fine suggestion,” Thor says, even though he would rather have taken Giselric's tack and stayed behind. Even though he can barely stay awake he is so bored by all this _contentment_ surrounding them. But Thor tires of the tension between him and his oldest friend that arose ever since Thor and Sif shared a bed. Fandral had said this journey would please Sigyn, and as such please him, and Thor could do no else but comply.

Thor pauses by a stall of ornate instruments shimmering in the mid-morning light. A lute catches his eye; it is palm-sized and slim and delicate with feathers painted along its body. It's made of crystal.

“Do you play?” Sigyn asks, coming to stand beside him.

“Poorly,” he answers. Every now and then he makes an attempt, but without Ikol to accompany him the notes sound hollow and off-key. Their melody rises in Thor's mind, and his heart warms, and Thor hopes that wherever Ikol is he has found peace.

“And yet I've heard you collect them. Along with other – affects. Odd pets. Trinkets of a peculiar taste. I mean no offense,” she adds quickly. “What you hold is lovely. But I would not have chosen it for you, if asked.”

Thor has thirteen lutes already – sixteen, if he counts those Baldur has thefted. He reaches into his pocket for coin. “Perhaps I endeavor not to be easily read?”

“Then you are a master at it,” she says. “Although…” Before the shopkeeper can wrap the the lute, she lifts it and turns it in her hands. “Then you would choose at random, would you not? This you chose with grim intention.” She pointedly traces the feathers.

“You have me caught,” Thor says, struggling to keep his smile steady and sincere. Struggling not to snatch the lute from her hold. “I am merely fond of the creatures.” It's not a lie; Thor is merely fond of birds in that he is exceptionally fond of a ghost who adored them.

“I wondered. Is that why–?” She returns to him the instrument and then mimes the shape of his new battle helmet, her splayed fingers the wings over either ear. Branthoc had gifted the helmet to him on his recent birth day. Thor hadn't requested the design. Sigyn isn't the first to realize Thor's fondness, even as she has no more idea of the true source as anyone else.

“And what are we whispering of over here?” Fandral asks, slipping between them and sliding an easy arm around Sigyn's waist. “Ah,” he says, eyeing the lute. To Sigyn, in an exaggerated whisper, he says, “Thor has peculiar taste. But we love him regardless.”

“Indeed,” Sigyn says, allowing herself to be pulled away while Thor purchases and pockets the carefully wrapped instrument.

It is a selfish hope Thor harbors that one day he will return to his chambers and find a delighted Ikol coveting the scores of treasures amassed in his absence, the ghost already reaching for whatever new gift Thor has hidden behind his back. Selfish, and he loathes how the hope has fixed in his heart long past when he'd resolved lay such hope to rest. Better to hope that Ikol is content at last in next life rather miserable and trapped haunting Asgard's palace halls.

And yet whenever Thor returns, he cannot help the brief thrill of anticipation when he hesitates before his chamber doors. Cannot help afterwards that lingering twinge of disappointment when they open to an empty room.

When Sif falls back to keep pace with him and brightly murmurs, “I know Sigyn means well, but if I am forced to endure this dull wandering a moment longer I will tear out what's left of my hair,” Thor brightly and loudly suggests they ought head for drink. Though even here Vinyalondë disappoints. The tavern Sigyn leads them to has no loud and drunken guffawing, no raucous music, no sloshed men collapsed off their seat or else poised for a brawl for the thrill of it, no half-dressed barmaids slipping effortlessly through the crowds.

“If this were water, it would hit me harder,” Volstagg says, dubiously scrutinizing the contents of the thin, tall glasses Sigyn ordered for them.

“Something stronger,” Thor requests a passing attendant.

“Nothing stronger than what you have,” the Elf says. She winks and adds, “Fear not, warrior. Patience. Savor each sip. It sneaks upon you.”

“If you say,” Thor says, though he's doubtful. “Another round, then.” The Elf leaves to comply even though her eyebrows raise at their already empty glasses.

A minstrel plays Elvish ballads from the small raised stage at the tavern's center. Something strangely familiar. It is mournful and low – no wonder all is dull with this as backdrop. Several rounds later, each barely felt, Thor is prepared to suggest they leave for Asgard when the tavern stills. The minstrel keeps singing and plucking at his stringed instrument even as the patrons fall gradually silent, and then he too cuts off mid-verse. Thor glances around, puzzled, as everyone turns to stare at him – no. Stare past him.

Thor stills too and slowly, reluctantly, looks over his shoulder. Randgrid and Þögn flank him, the two Valkyries expressionless.

In Þögn's hands the All-Father's crown.

Pity that Hugi had not been seated with them, Thor thinks, the thought distant and numb, as between one heartbeat and the next Thor has vaulted over the table and is through the tavern entranceway. Hugi wouldn't have had the time to leave the tavern before Thor was through the markets, Thor's boots thumping on the ground and his blood thumping in his ears. The Valkyries keep even pace beside him, gliding forward smoothly and their wings and feet barely meeting the ground.

He skids to a halt at the field where the Bifröst opens, his companions only steps behind him. Thor bellows, “Heimdall! Heimdall, open the Bifröst! Now!”

Silence. The sky is still.

Again he shouts, “Heimdall! Heimdall, now!” Þögn drifts closer and attempts to place the crown upon him, but he pushes her away and calls louder, “Heimdall! I demand you answer me!” Never in Thor's life has his call for Heimdall gone unanswered. His companions shift uneasily, their expressions drawn and pale and their hands at their weapons. Þögn hovers closer and closer each time Thor shoves her away, the crown in her hands gleaming under the Álfheimr suns. A crowd soon gathers around them, the Elves wide-eyed and murmuring.

Thor bellows until he is hoarse, but the only response is silence.

* * *

_Within the Mirror_

The Odinson's strike and the resulting patchwork of jagged, broken cracks have made existence inside the cage even more unpleasant than usual. How _adorable_ of Loki to think such a feat impossible.

Each morning now, he crouches by the back wall, waiting. As if the Asgard sun rises in the vault and not far away outside the palace sky, the mirror's cracks are like shadows cast along the ground and to the walls in exaggerated stretches. The ground is wrenched apart in these patterns, the walls echoing with great groaning creaks as the chasms open, and snow spirals down into the endless, black depths. Even the lake drains, the charr momentarily flopping wildly in the waterless air before falling; Loki has not yet heard one hit ground. Loki has long since lost all his books to the chasms. And each evening as the far-off sun sets, the shadow-chasms fuse together and retreat, the water rises and the snow falls anew, and Loki must sleep lightly lest he too fall between the cracks. As the sun is never still, so too the chasms form and unform in constant motion.

If Loki were in a better mood, he might better appreciate the exquisiteness of such a maddening torture.

But he is hardly in an appreciative mood, as this dance is not even the worst of it. He can pass no longer through the mirror as shade or otherwise. The cracks are as sharpened blades pressing in. When first the All-Father had seen what the Odinson had done, he had spent a long moment studying the hammer on the ground and the overturned pedestal. He'd reached in a hand, and his skin had been nearly flayed where he'd moved along a crack.

The last few weeks of Freyr and Freyja's ritual were spent with all three seated close to the mirror, Loki still inside, and his arms through the largest pieces of unbroken mirror available. Even the once he'd attempted to cross as a shade, the wounds had split open on his actual flesh. And no matter the size he creates his shades to be, the jagged patterns scale to remain equally impassable.

So he is trapped inside, and with the Odinson's companions bid never return, Freyr and Freyja's transformations complete, and the All-Father seemingly unwilling to call upon him for a task and so cause Loki the harm it would do him to cross through the mirror, Loki is alone.

_Again_.

This is the Odinson's fault. All of it.

Carefully picking his way through the worst of the shadow-chasms, Loki stands before the mirror. The frame equally damaged, it stands now always open as entranceway, and he can even sometimes hear the echoes of sound from the hallways outside the vault. The distant rise and fall of voices is louder than usual. Busier. He feels along the surface, re-counting the gaps, and stares at the Casket of Ancient Winters. There are seventeen gaps spread out along the mirror's surface. Seventeen, some so slight he could fit no more than a fingernail through. And the Casket _right there_. He can taste its power on his tongue.

But still the physical distance is hardly the issue at hand. Even if he managed a way through the mirror, well, what then? Only one way in and out of Asgard and even with the Casket's power he could hardly face the whole of this realm that would stand between him and that bridge. And should he somehow escape, what then? No realm would have him, least of all Jötunheimr. Is there even a realm he might wish to have? He's been too long with clipped wings in a cramped, close-walled cage. The idea of _freedom_ – true freedom, without walls or keepers or endless monotony – frightens him, just a little, just enough, that though each day he means to act he yet does more than reassess the mirror's weaknesses.

“Gatekeeper, I'm bored,” he says. “Come down here and tell me a story, would you? I believe you're the last being in this entire wretched realm to not yet have burdened me with his presence. Come bother me.”

He does not even feel the gatekeeper's attention. Granted, Loki has been ignoring the gatekeeper for ages now. “Do not be like that,” he says, and spends a few more minutes unsuccessfully cajoling, but the gatekeeper apparently holds a grudge.

He almost does not hear the sound of footsteps over the loud voices from the hallways. “I did not realize you had anyone in there with you,” Freyr says, as he steps into Loki's view. A large sledgehammer is strapped to his back.

“The ritual is completed,” Loki says with barely a glance in Freyr's direction. “I no longer need tolerate you.”

“Hmmm,” Freyr says. He begins to circle the vault, tapping the heel of his boot on the ground every few feet. When he reaches the mirror again, he says, “I've a message. Words I wish you to hear, Jötun-prince.” If there was ever something to assure Loki's attention – No one has called Loki a prince since he was a child. And even then, there'd been a hint of mocking to the word. Only Fárbauti-king had ever called him Loki-prince and seemed to mean everything the title implied, even as no blood was shared between them. Freyr's expression is sincere.

“I am listening,” Loki says.

Tone equally sincere, Freyr says, “I pray you remember this: When you have need, do not forget you have loyal servants available to be called upon, and that I count among them.”

“You are sworn to Asgard,” Loki says. “You're lying – what was that?” Almost like the sound of an explosion.

“I heard nothing,” Freyr says. He backs away and resumes his circling, still tapping his heel. “Freyja and I – we have had disagreements of late. Well, we've always had our disagreements. But lately we've been even more disagreeable than the norm.” Another pace, another tap. “I imagine it is less difficult for kings. At the least, I cannot imagine it being more so than for their pawns.” Loki studies Freyr, attempting to make sense of the man's movements. Of the pauses between his words. “Freyja and I – we have never been content, you see.” A longer pause, another circuit. “We are placing our bets separately this time around. Perhaps it is best. Look where our consensus lands us, eh?” He taps his heel repeatedly in one place, shakes his head, and moves on. Loki finally places the pauses; they are the spaces where Freyja would've finished his thoughts.

“You speak treason,” Loki says.

“Do I? Does that bother you? I rather thought it would delight you.”

“You think I would delight in an idiot ally speaking freely so that the gatekeeper can overhear and call you out?”

“Gatekeeper?” Freyr frowns, pauses in his circling. “Ah. You must mean Heimdall.” He flashes a quick grin and resumes. “I would not be overly concerned. Heimdall is, shall we say, otherwise occupied at the moment. Did you know that the whole of Asgard's belly is hollow with secret pathways?”

Loki, in fact, does know. The very first book the Odinson ever read to him was of the architects' accounts spanning every moment of time, half of it maps and blueprints of the palace, from the lowest dungeon to the highest spire. And coupled with Baldur's accounts, Loki knows not just the shapes of some of Asgard's most secret rooms but the contents, as well. Servant tunnels, escape routes, burrows carved in the dirt by wild beasts turned around from the forests, passages the origin of which not even the architects quite knew. None open into this weapons vault, but one does pass directly underneath.

“That column,” Loki says, pointing. “By the gauntlet. Just before it.”

Freyr heads to where Loki directed and taps his boot heel. The thud is hollow.

“There it is,” he says. He pulls a thin piece of metal from a pocket, and with a flick it expands to almost his own height The bottom end is sharpened to a point. Freyr centers it over the hollow piece of floor and pushes down just enough to settle the tip, and then he takes the sledgehammer and pounds the metal pole until it is half-way into the ground.

“A shining beacon of hope,” he says. Then he straps the hammer once more to his back, says, “I pray you remember my words, Jötun-prince,” and waves his hands in a flourishing bow. He bounds up the steps and out of the vault before Loki can do more than blink.

Loki stares at the metal pole. What purpose? He knew of the tunnels – that still will not lead him out of the realm, and he's little doubt there is anywhere in Asgard he could hide indefinitely. Simply shielding himself for a few hours each evening during his visits to Baldur exhausted him. Even if the gatekeeper is – a twinge of unease travels along his spine – _occupied_ , Loki has no knowledge of how to open the Bifröst. Is time short in which to make a decision? How dare Freyr not bother to explain.

That's when the ice begins creeping up the metal pole and spreading out along the floor. Ice – he takes a deep breath – and the smell of home. Something pounds on the floor from below, and a square of the floor shatters inward revealing–

Loki's throat closes.

His _brothers_. His _true_ brothers by blood. Helblindi and Býleistr both, and a third Jötun unfamiliar to Loki. Loki's knees nearly buckle.

He has been so _lonely_.

“Here!” Helblindi calls, and then he and Býleistr are before the mirror, here in front of him, reaching inside. They do not flinch when the mirror cracks tear strips of flesh from their arms.

“The Casket!” Loki says. “Right there!”

Býleistr shakes his head. “No, brother,” he says. “Father bid us collect you and only you.”

Only him. Only _Loki_. Somehow his father has arranged for a breach in Asgard's defenses, incapacitated the gatekeeper – and most of Asgard, if the growing noise outside is indication – found the weapons vault, and of the two spoils stored here, Laufey-king seeks _him_.

Turning his face to the side and closing his eyes, Loki clasps either of Helblindi's and Býleistr's arms, and he bites clean through his lips not to scream when he's pulled through. From forehead to ankle his skin hangs off of him in ribbons, the wounds felt equally split open on his front and his back, and blood pours freely to his feet, but he is _free_ and surrounded by _kin_.

“Even so we oughtn't waste the opportunity,” he rasps. “Take the Casket.”

The third Jötun moves to comply. As Loki heads to the opening in the damaged floor he grabs the handle of the Odinson's discarded hammer, wanting spoils of his own, but the hammer does not budge and the jerk nearly takes off his arm. Glowering at it, he grabs the hilt with both hands even though his hold is slippery with his own blood, plants his feet firmly, and pulls, but it will not give no matter how he strains.

Helblindi says, “We must hurry, brother. Our time is not infinite.”

“Give me a hand, then, and I'll be quicker,” Loki says.

Then he hears an odd clicking noise, and the third Jötun shrieks. He looks over his shoulder just as the Jötun is incinerated by a giant, metal warrior that came – through the back wall? Loki gapes. Has that monstrous fire guardian been here the _entire time_? It is little wonder, Loki realizes, frozen in place as the metal head turns in his direction, that the All-Father feared not he might escape.

“Loki!” Býleistr calls, but he and Helblindi are on the other side of the vault, too far away. The distance to the opening in the floor is now unthinkably far, too, and the metal face is clicking open.

But just as the flames start flaring towards him, blindingly bright, he's suddenly surrounded by – feathers?

An enormous set of wings, spread open and so near the white feathers tickle his face. Loki peers cautiously around, enough to see they belong to a strange armored creature, looking like the corpse of an Asgardian woman. She – it? –has an immense shield strapped to her arm which blocks the metal guardian’s flames.

She looks over her shoulder at him, unflinching and peaceful in the continued onslaught, and gazes at him as if waiting for instruction.

“Loki!” Helblindi hisses, and Loki scrambles over and throws himself through the broken floor. He glances back once and sees the winged woman lower her shield and tap the metal guardian in the chest with her spear; it immediately straightens, as if chastised, and she peaceably walks it backward.

“Did you know that creature?” Helblindi asks as he breathlessly directs them through the tunnels.

“Neither one,” Loki says. Black spots still dance in his vision, more from the blinding glow around the woman than the metal guardian's flames.

They run, and Helblindi chants, “This way. This way,” as Býleistr mutters angrily of how they'd been told nothing of a fire guardian.

They pass dozens of the metal poles stuck half-way into the ceiling of the tunnels – leading the way. Helblindi brushes a hand against each one as they pass, freezing each so that it shatters and leaves no trace. They pass, too, dozens of Asgardians, wide-eyed and dead, each encased in ice. When they finally emerge from the tunnels they are underneath the Bifröst. It glitters in the evening sun.

“How do you mean us to escape?” Loki asks, hoping it will not be too difficult. He is dizzy with too much lost blood and too much shock.

“There's a rift,” Helblindi says. “But we must be swift – it will close shortly. Here, this way, like this,” he says. He reaches his hands up and places them on the bridge underside and sends ice spiraling out from his fingers, and then he walks his feet up, ice blooming around his feet and ankles to attach. He helps first Loki and then Býleistr likewise stand upside down, and once secure they run beneath the bridge. Helblindi slicks the way with ice before them.

Then Loki sees it – a strangeness in the air beneath the golden dome of the Bifröst chamber. When they reach the rift, Helblindi gestures for him to leap through, but Loki hesitates. While Helblindi insists there is no time, Loki sidles to the edge of the Bifröst and peers above.

The gatekeeper.

Frozen solid, sword outstretched, and with two Jötnar beside him pouring frost into him almost as swiftly as the gatekeeper's struggles shatter that already encasing him. His eyes are closed beneath the ice. Unseeing.

“Loki!” Helblindi insists, and Loki turns away from the gatekeeper and leaps into the rift.

* * *

_Asgard_

The worst of the danger must have passed, because once Thor snaps at Randgrid and Þögn to give him the crown and be done with it, the two Valkyries had disappeared. Even so, when Heimdall _finally_ responds and opens the Bifröst to them, Thor hits the bridge with weapon drawn. Heimdall's armor glitters with frost, and his skin is tinged blue. Giselric is waiting, even grimmer than usual and holding the reins to a half dozen steeds. He says, “The queen awaits you in her chambers.”

All is hushed around them. Smoke ascends to the sky in thin streams at several points in the distance. But no sound of actual battle. No panic. No need for him to panic.

Thor swings on a mount and dashes for the palace, barely halting his steed before he's leapt off. He runs for his mother's chambers and throws open the doors. His companions, close behind him, all halt at the entranceway.

His father lays on the bed, encased by the thin, golden mesh that is more usually found surrounding and monitoring the sick and wounded in the physicians' wings.

His father breathes. Why then–?

“Oh, Thor,” his mother says. She is drawn in and weary. She takes his arm and gently leads him to a seat beside the bed. Baldur, whose presence Thor had not even registered beside him, leans over and wraps his arms around him, burying his face in Thor's shoulder. Thor throws an arm around his younger brother, tucking him in close.

“What has happened?”

“Most unfortunately, many ill occurrences at once. And though I suspect there is too much coincidence to call them unrelated, there is yet proof to say otherwise. First what seemed to be false messages for aid had been sent, scattering the bulk of our forces in a dozen locations. Riots broke out in our cities, although the instigators are disappeared. Heimdall was attacked, and so you and our forces were stranded.”

“And father? What befell him?”

“He has fallen into a deep sleep, my sons,” his mother says. “A sleep from which he ought awake should – should the fates not meddles also in this. It was not supposed to come upon him for centuries yet. He'd anticipated more time to prepare – to explain.” She places a hand through the haze and tenderly lays her knuckles against the All-Father's cheek. “He'd anticipated time to find a way around even paying this price.”

“For how long?” Thor asks.

“One decade, by the original agreement,” she says. “But so early – so unexpected, fallen in the halls. No provocation. He could wake tomorrow. Or not at all. Which is why–”

“Jötunheimr attacked us,” Thor says. There had been frost on Heimdall's armor. “They orchestrated this. They must have.”

His mother shakes her head. “We have no proof–”

“My queen,” Giselric interrupts. He head is bowed respectfully. “I witnessed the Jötnar escape through a rift near the Bifröst. And I straight away went to see – they broke into the weapons vault. I counted twelve men dead along the way.”

“The vault?” His mother pales. “What was taken? The Casket of Ancient Winters?”

Giselric's gaze slides to Thor, and Thor knows. “Not the Casket. The Jötun,” Giselric says.

“I see,” his mother says. She frowns to herself.

Faintly, Baldur says, “There was a Jötun? Here?”

Thor hugs Baldur tighter and says, “He was locked away. There was never any danger.” Not before. Now, however – Thor has to see for himself. He leaves Baldur with their mother and gestures for his companions to follow him. They are silent as they stride for the weapons vault.

Inside, the mirror is shattered as it was and the Casket still in its place. That strange hammer's pedestal is overturned and the hammer itself is on the ground, but that had been his own doing.

“My king?” Sif says, soft and hesitant.

Blood is smeared across the floor and along the mirror, and strips of blue flesh hang between the cracks. Parts of the floor are singed and dusted with ash, so the Destroyer at least attempted to do its job. But if Giselric's account is true, it did not succeed. Was the imprisoned Jötun one of the survivors?

“My king? If you would see this?”

An opening gapes in the floor, leading to the underground tunnels. Water drips from the jagged edges of the opening down into the soil below. No other affects missing. The Casket glows from its stand.

“ _Thor_ ,” Sif says, and Thor starts and turns to where she crouches, inspecting something on the ground. Softly, “I was addressing you.”

No. Not softly. With deference.

A moment to comprehend.

Thor glances between his companions, none of whom quite meet his gaze. They carry themselves – differently. _With deference._ His instinct is to chastise them that there is no need for ceremony between friends such as they, but that is not true, is it? There is every need for that distance. And that is a truth Thor has always in his heart known.

“Tell me,” he say, crouching beside her. She holds up a single white feather, singed black at the tip. The root is pure, shining gold.

“None of ours fell here,” she says. “What would have drawn a Valkyrie to this place?”

Thor takes the feather, twisting it between two fingers. He tucks the feather into his belt and rises. “I haven't answers, but I know where they are to be found. We are for Jötunheimr,” he says. “Meet me at the Bifröst.” He takes up the hammer, drawn to it. Its weight is solid and reliable in his grip.

At his mother's chambers once more, he says, “We–”

“You are _not_ ,” she says.

Though Thor wishes he could step forward and rest his brow against hers and accept her comfort, he holds himself tall and keeps the distance between them. She makes no move to close it. “We are.”

“Listen to me. You are king until your father wakes, and should he never do so, until death finds you one far off day as well. You are _All-Father_ , Thor. That is no idle title. If you take from your ill-attended tutoring and from your careless attention to your father and me no other lesson, please tell me you have taken this one: From the moment that crown touched your brow, your actions were no longer your own. Every last word you speak, action you take or have taken, will resonate from here to every corner of this Universe. If your first act is some blind, overhasty vengeance, how do you believe that will be regarded?”

Thor grips the hammer's hilt and attempts to speak calmly. “I am listening, mother. I am. But you mean to say that Jötun _trespass_ into our realm on the _same day_ my father – the All-Father – falls into unexpected sleep, and I am to do nothing?”

“Nothing _rash_. What of other realms?”

“Jötunheimr did not attack other realms! They attacked this one!”

She shakes her head. “You know this for certain?”

That pauses Thor. “Where else did they strike?”

“Your council awaits you in the throne room. I beg of you to meet with them before deciding anything.”

“My father's council, you mean.”

“Now yours, until you've opportunity to re-decide their ranks if you wish. They are good men and women your father has chosen.”

Thor's head is pounding and weariness settles in his limbs. He's doesn't protest further. In the hallways, he halts a servant boy. “The lords Volstagg, Fandral, and Giselric, and the Lady Sif, wait on the Bifröst. Tell them I bid them to the throne room.”

“My king,” the boy says, scampering off to comply.

This morning Odin was king and All-Father and not a few hours since it is Thor with those titles, and already all know of the difference. How quickly. How utterly out of his ability to control.

The dozen men and women of the council fall silent as he walks through their ranks and ascends the steps to the throne. They're silent as he drops the hammer on the floor beside his seat and while the boom echoes throughout the hall. When he is seated, they resume mid-sentence their loud arguments and mad gesturing.

Is this numb emptiness what his father felt after his own abrupt crowning, sitting at one end of the negotiation tables while the Muspelmegir lords argued and his own father's council whispered to him advice?

It is a relief when Thor's companions filter in and flank him, though they seem as flat-footed as he. His advisers talk at him and through him and over him and not once to him, and he cannot pinpoint when they no longer seem to be speaking a language he even understands, their every word gibberish to him. And there are more of them! Their number almost doubled and none of them introducing themselves, too many talking over one another.

Enough of this! He has the gift of commanding loyalty. That is what he has always been told. It is his judgment, ultimately, and he has judged that Jötunheimr must answer for its crimes. He will explain this to his council, and as he's at it demand they return to the All-Tongue. He leans forward, meaning to yell over them, but he has to slam his hands against the throne arms to keep from pitching forward.

“Your majesty?” one man – Harold, Thor thinks? – asks.

Thor glances sideways at his companions. Volstagg is green and shifting, Fandral leaning heavily against him, and Sif keeps tilting to one side and then catching herself and straightening. Only Giselric appears well.

The Elvish drink, Thor remembers, gripping the armrests tighter as he is reasonably certain that this grip is all that keeps him from turning to liquid and sloshing down the steps. It snuck up.

Forcing his suddenly thick tongue to cooperate, Thor manages to articulate the word, “Continue,” and spends the remaining hours and _hours_ of the meeting trying desperately to remain upright and awake. He is vaguely aware that the council establish that Jötunheimr has made no other attacks and that the damage they had done was minimal. That they decide that until the matter is further investigation it is wisest to wait and see. That they draft letters to send to important figures with the news of Thor's rule and invitations for audience, all with minimal input from Thor though all requiring his signature. Then the council are ready to table all other considerations and almost as one they turn to Thor, who rises from his slouch, startled at the sudden scrutiny.

_Now_ they regard Thor, waiting for their dismissal. In a better mood he would've made them all sit through the night for their disregard. But even though the worst of the drink's effect seems to have passed, all he wants is to head to his bed until his head and stomach settle. It is effort to simply echo words he's heard from his father hundreds of times, “This is sufficient for now.”

Almost before he's finished the council turn and filter out. When they've left, Thor bids his companions leave, also, and seek rest, which they do so gratefully. Thor is alone but a moment before a different servant approaches him and bows. “The queen requests your attendance in her chambers.”

Though he is weary in mind and spirit – weary with that damned Elvish liquor in his veins – too weary to so soon see again his father death-like beneath that golden mesh and be reminded of the unaccustomed weight on his head, he returns, alone, to his mother's chambers. She's seated beside his father, one of his hands held in hers. Baldur has left, but Idunn is present, hovering nearby with Freyr and Freyja flanking her and their elbows linked with hers.

“There is one last detail I would discuss before you are waylaid once more by your advisers,” his mother says.

“I have had my fill of them already,” Thor says. “They'd assured me all else could be tabled.”

“Aldman and Almalrica will be lingering outside your chambers begging you disregard anything said by Dructuin. They will be barely shooed away before Dructuin will sidle by to beg you disregard _them_. The scribes will by now have had chance to look over whatever documents were hastily written during your meeting, and time to rewrite them nearly from scratch so as to be more palatable to their recipients, all of which will require your approval and signature. Not to mention there is a stack of correspondence awaiting you in what is now your study, and the scores of men idling around the Bifröst convinced you do in fact mean to go to Jötunheimr this day – an assumption not quelled by Mjölnir swinging from your belt.”

He is not different than he'd been this morning – it is all of the Universe that has changed around him. His life has been nothing but preparation, and yet he is already overwhelmed. Even if he'd been more attentive, heeded every last lesson and every last word of advice, would he be any more prepared? “Mjölnir?”

“The hammer. An ancient weapon, and one wielded only by the worthy. Your father – he'd meant it as a coronation present.”

The weight of the hammer, until this moment a welcome heaviness in his grip, suddenly pulls at him. “What matter, mother, that we must now discuss?”

“If you would excuse us,” his mother says, gesturing toward Freyr and Freyja.

“We are merely offering poor Idunn comfort,” Freyja says, tightening her grip on Idunn's arm. Idunn smiles absently and lays her head briefly on Freyja's shoulder.

“Though we all grieve, she knew the All-Father better than us. She asked for our comfort, majesty,” Freyr says.

“You mistake that for a request,” his mother says, smile thin.

The siblings blink in unison, and then Freyr says, “My queen, of course. Sincere apologies,” and Freyja echoes, “Most sincere.” They each kiss Idunn's cheek. When they reach where Thor stands and part ways to pass him on either side, they pause and bow their heads with murmured, “My king,” and, “Our condolences.” Then they are gone.

“Marriage and succession,” his mother says. “It must be dealt with immediately. This is why I've asked Idunn to join us. She is skilled in these matters, and ought help us find you–”

“That is why, Frigga? Whatever for?” Idunn says. “Our king is already wed.”

Though Thor's father is the one in a sleep like unto death, for a moment his chest is the only one in the room that rises and falls with breath. Thor is suddenly, achingly, sober.

Slowly, deliberately, his mother sinks her face into her hands. Thor hears a muffled swear. Then, “Thor,” she groans.

Finding his voice, Thor says, “I am not! I know not what delusions compel Idunn to–”

“There is no gain from this, Thor! Just tell me.”

“I cannot if there is no one! Mother, I swear it, I am not married.”

“Why did you then accept my wedding gift to you?” Idunn asks. At Thor's blank stare, she says, “The apple. It grew pure. A binding like that is rare. The match was true.”

Fingers rubbing at her temples, his mother says, “There can be no mistake?”

“None. There was intent, ritual, and witness all. By Yggdrasil's law your son has a wife. I had hoped to finally meet your queen, truthfully. I even put in no fuss when my presence was here requested today. Even though damage was done to my forests during this silliness with the attacks and I ought be there to mend it.”

“Idunn keeps our ever-records,” his mother says. “She knows of these events. Tell me a name, Thor. What's done is done, and I welcome whomever you have chosen. Bring her here, and we'll arrange the announcement.”

“I tell you – I swear to you – if I am wed it was without my consent and I know not to whom. If Idunn knows all can _she_ not give us a name?”

“I _keep_ the records,” Idunn says, crossing her arms. “They are not mine to _know_. Besides, the event is now so long past–” Thor's mother groans again and sinks her face once more behind her hands, “I would hardly know how to begin searching.”

“If you could attempt,” his mother says.

“Of course,” Idunn says. She briefly embraces his mother and then sweeps past and out of the room.

“Mother, I fear Idunn is insane,” Thor says.

“She may well be. But she has true knowledge of these affairs. If she says you have a wife there is no question of it.” She rises and stands before him, hands on his shoulders. “This has been a shock for all of us, and perhaps for you most of all. Take a moment for yourself, my son and my king. Then return, and I will aid you as I am able.”

Thor returns to his chambers, closing the doors on his advisers who beg for his attention exactly as his mother had predicted. After a brief search he finds the silver apple; he's frankly amazed the owls hadn't eaten it. It shines in his hands and fills his senses with sweetness and his head with melody.

_“I prefer not these melancholic fits of yours,”_ Ikol would once tell him. _“Tell me what bothers you, that I might explain to you why you are daft to be so bothered and I shall explain how to fix your woes that I needn't also suffer them.”_

And though Ikol's solutions had rarely been advisable, merely speaking freely had invariably lifted Thor's spirits. Thor does not in this moment care that it is a selfish desire – he wishes his ghost were here beside him.

* * *

_Jötunheimr_

One step through the rift and Loki knows. He is returned to Jötunheimr. Returned home? That is less certain. But not pressing. He falls to his knees and kisses the ground, shuddering uncontrollably in aching grief. He expects Helblindi and Býleistr to jeer at his weakness – they would have when last he knew them, but when last they knew him he would never have revealed himself so. But they merely flank him, quiet and still, and wait until he composes himself. Then they help him rise; Loki is weak, bloody and all-but flayed alive. They make no comment as he allows himself to lean heavily against them. As they travel to Laufey-king's temple, they pass dozens of Jötnar. Most are unknown to Loki, but all straighten and observe their slow passage in watchful silence.

“Father asks you rest and recover,” Helblindi says when they reach the tall, cavernous temple. “He will see you when you are ready.”

When he is ready. _At Loki's choosing._

Loki's rooms are as he left them. At first he sleeps long hours buried under snow and mindlessly eats the meals brought to him by silent servants. Helblindi, he knows, hovers nearby, but leaves Loki his space. It is not so different on its face as the life he'd lived in his mirror-cage. Except the meals are fine delicacies, and the unaccustomed variety leaves him queasy and ill.

He spends some time admiring the wounds upon his flesh. They are beautiful. For too long his hardships were hidden in his mind, unseen and unmarked, and here they are made unequivocally apparent on his skin. _Look at what I have endured. What I have survived._ Curious to know their full effect, he searches the halls until he finds a tall mirror. He stands before it, unthinking, and his vision slides to white.

He does not recall much of the subsequent hours, but Helblindi tells him that Loki had raged. Would not calm until every mirror in the temple had been destroyed. “No more mirrors,” he'd supposedly hissed, over and over, and Helblindi had supposedly assured him, over and over, “No more.”

No one bothers Loki while he wanders the halls, relearning the angles of his once-home. Truthfully, it had hardly felt like home before, merely been all he had known. It hardly feels like home now.

When his curiosity can no more be pushed aside, Loki turns to his ever-present shadow and says, “I wish now to see–” His tongue trips over the word _father_ – “Laufey-king.”

He's led past the main throne room, through the maze of private quarters beyond, down further below into the damp tunnels where the depths of the ocean can be seen clearly through the thick icy walls, and finally through the great doors beyond which is the Cavern of Ancient Winters. Loki has never been permitted into the Cavern – which is not to say he's never been, but the one time he'd almost managed he'd been promptly caught and turned around.

He recalls that attempt to follow Laufey-king and the Mother into the Cavern. Her voice a siren's-song to Loki's ears. _“All monsters are drawn to me,”_ she'd said, and when she'd smiled, Loki had smiled back, helpless not to. But he had not been permitted to follow, and they'd disappeared into the secret room.

This is where the kings connect with kings past – all of the king of Jötunheimr, not merely the Jötun ones. The ice is thin here, the press of ocean closer from all sides and reflecting against the uneven ground so it too shimmers and dances to the waves' patterns above. A water-dragon swims peacefully past, its lazy call echoing through the chamber.

“My son,” Laufey-king says. He is seated in the Cavern's center before the hollow in the ground in which the Casket of Ancient Winters once rested. He gestures Loki forward. “How does home find you?”

“Different than I left it,” Loki says, impassive for the mad turmoil inside. “But I return different than when I'd left.”

“As our coasts, we are ever-changing and never-changing,” Laufey-king says. “But you refer to the surface. I ask of your core.”

Laufey-king had always understood that, at least. “Steadfast,” Loki says.

The water-dragon casts them briefly in shadow as it glides overhead. “I am pleased to hear that is so. Come, ask me what you wish to know.”

Loki asks first the easy question. “How?”

“The Bifröst and the lesser bridges that connect the lesser realms are not the only means of travel between realms – though they are the safest and most reliable. But there are places where the distance is shorter and the fabric thinner, and though they at their natural state seek to be sealed, for short periods they can be forced agape. I have long known of this rift between here and Asgard. But until now I have kept that secret to myself. That rift is how we infiltrated Asgard. Once there – well, as I believe you are well aware, there are traitors in the House of Odin. And an enemy of Odin tends to be a great friend of ours. What else?”

Loki places a hand against the wall, staring into the many eyes of a giant sea-spider. He has never had opportunity to study one so close; he'd always been rather occupied dashing out of their angry reach.

“There are many days between when I returned and when I'd left. It sounds as if the rift existed for the duration. Why now?”

“Opportunity,” Laufey-king says. “An aligning of interests between allies. And a touch of impatience on my part, I will openly confess. An opportunity to take advantage of one of Odin's debts. A sleep, so deep as to be almost a death. I called upon a favor of my own that the sleep may take him unawares at a time of my choosing. And now his eldest son wears his crown.”

Loki has to rest his forehead against the wall and take a deep breath to stay upright. A favor called. For him. And Thor on the throne. The sea-spider inches closer, as if it too seeks to take this chance to sate its own curiosity.

“Come now, my son. This is not what you truly wish to know. Ask me. You must realize this invitation is not indefinite.”

He tries to, truly, but it is effort enough to just lean against the wall while the sea-spider blinks its eyes in waves.

“Look below your feet,” Laufey-king says.

He tilts his head down, his horns scratching shrilly against the glass. The sea-spider scurries off at the noise. Loki studies the jagged floor below his feet, and at first sees only the reflected patterns of the ocean. But – he crouches. Beneath the patterns, the floor is carved with–

Names. He gazes out over the Cavern's expanse, and realizes they stand upon their lineage.

“Find yours,” Laufey-king says.

Loki can effortlessly name the entire Asgardian royal family for at least seven generations back and it takes him far too long to find a starting point for his own.

“I thought at first that I had lost you, when I saw. And I cursed myself for it, that I had once more underestimated the All-Father's insidious influence.”

There – Fárbauti-king's great-great grandfather, and among his sons, yes, this one is the great-grandfather, and this one his son…

“But my eyes and ears in Odin's court whispered to me otherwise. Reported to me strange observations. I turned over and over in my mind just what my shapeshifting son could be up to in my enemy's house, and I realized you had given me a gift. I realized you were still mine.”

And there is Fárbauti-king's father, which leads to Fárbauti-king himself, and by marriage he connects to Laufey-king, and from Laufey-king Loki finds his own name, and connected to his name…

Oh.

“In all my dearest hopes for you, never had I imagined you could bestow upon me such a gift. Never. You have made me proud to call you Loki Laufeyson.”

A tether. An anchor. That is all Loki had craved at the time. Something solid for the days when Loki could not remember if the ghost were the true reality and the locked-away Jötun the dream. Half balm and half lark and Loki had been half certain it would not even be binding.

Had half thought the hum in his mind the making of his own insanity.

“I wished to be certain, though, of your loyalties. Tell me, my son. To whom do you belong?”

_To myself_ , Loki thinks, as he says, “To my home.”

“And the Odinson? Will he come for you?”

Perhaps not for him, but he will come for Jötunheimr. “He will.”

“And then?” Laufey-king prompts. “When you return?”

Loki hadn't planned on returning. He's had enough of Asgard. What point in all that effort to bring Loki home if only to send him straight back? “What would you have me do?”

“They are cut at the knees without Odin. Ensure they do not find their feet.”

“Destroy them?” Loki asks. “Return with the knowledge of my status and use that to ruin Asgard?”

Laufey-king shakes his head and scoffs and Loki is reminded of how it so often was when he was younger; he would look up and up and up to meet Laufey-king's gaze, and Laufey-king would look down and down and down and berate him for being small and slow-witted. “Of course not. What have I told you about the kinship of enemies with long history?”

“Then what would you have me do if not destroy them?”

Laufey-king's teeth shine in a grin. “Something worse, my son. Humiliate them, as they humiliated Jötunheimr. Make of them utter fools in the eyes of all the realms. It should not be too difficult – from what I've gathered you've already begun. And in a quarter century when Odin wakes, let him see what has become of his rule. ”

Later, up on the roof of Laufey-king's temple, Loki attempts to count the days between now and when last he breathed true winter air, tread on fresh, actual snow, and surveyed the spires and crevices and oceans of his realm from atop a true Jötun dwelling with his own, true eyes.

He cannot fathom the length of his own captivity.

This is not the Jötunheimr Loki recalls. But what did he ever truly know if it? So much open space. Loki wants to blanket himself under the snow, to create four close walls and huddle between them so that he can breathe.

Should he do as Laufey-king commands? Can he risk disobeying? Which choice is the greater gain to Loki? Which choice causes his stomach to twist the least?

His time is up to decide. One month since Loki has returned and he knows he had had no more or less than one month to decide. He itches at his skin. At the bright red slashes that have made of him a patchwork to match his mirror-cage. After weeks of bandaging and re-bandaging the wounds are closed. But these scars – he thinks they will remain always upon him.

It will be today. It will be any moment, and still he stands undecided.

One month. That is the extent of the Odinson's patience. Loki thinks of approval and possession. Of obligation and desire. Of time lost and time yet before him. And he even thinks, briefly, of love. When the suns are at their mid-day height, the sky shimmers and begins to open.

Like a blade falling to behead him the Bifröst bridge descends, and Loki chooses.

* * *

_Asgard_

For one month Thor behaves. He's accosted at every turn by advisers, his mother, and random messengers. He's given condolences and congratulations in a single breath by every passerby. He never has more than a moment to himself before someone requests an audience with him. Half his days are spent reading through the stacks of correspondence that detail what must be every political development, no matter how insignificant, of every city of every realm. He's had no time to spare for poor Baldur, who since their father's sleep has looked as shocked and lonely as Thor feels and spends an ever increasing amount of time in Idunn's forest.

And everyone acts like what is important is the smooth transition between rules and not the act which necessitated it.

It has been long enough.

“You go to war, your majesty?” Heimdall asks, impassive.

“I go for answers,” Thor says. Never mind that he and the small force he has gathered around him are in full battle gear, Mjölnir already a comforting weight at his side. Those answers will determine the answer to Heimdall's inquiry.

Never in all of Thor's journeys has he stepped foot on icy Jötunheimr. The wind is cutting even under his thick coat, the snow felt even through his thick boots. The barren, frozen fields appear empty, but he feels watchful eyes upon him. His warriors four flank him and a handful of others trail behind. Scores more are poised on Asgard, awaiting his word.

“Laufey's throne,” one of his men says, pointing to the structure in the distance. They trudge through the wind and snow. Laufey meets him half way. A few dozen Jötnar appear out of the heavy snow to lounge in a loose half-circle around him.

“What honor brings our new All-Father to this my humble realm?” Laufey says. Casually – no deference in his tone or posture. No fear.

Thor will teach it to him. “You attacked Asgard,” Thor says, firm and loud that all can hear. “You caused thoughtless mayhem and death. You stole from us and broke the treaty between us. You've ignored our messages demanding explanation. So _you_ answer _me_. What have you to say?”

“Dear me,” Laufey says. A few of the Jötnar smirk. “You act as if I declared war.”

“So you do not deny these charges?”

“I deny your interpretation of them. They were the actions of a few who spoke not for all of us. You see, my sons,” he waves forward two Jötnar, toweringly tall and highly decorated. “My youngest. They have mourned these long years for their captured elder brother. I have told them there is nothing for it. The All-Father, alas, spoke, and his word is law. And I,” Laufey lays a hand against his chest, “would never dream of challenging his just authority. But, well, you have a brother, have you not? Would you not disregard all caution if you knew he suffered?”

So the Jötun in the vault was Laufey's son. His firstborn. That goes quite some way towards explaining his presence in Asgard.

Laufey says, “So if the matter is settled–?”

Thor's hand closes around Mjölnir's hilt. Such _arrogance_. Assuming such a pithy explanation excuses all. Thor begins to say, “That settles nothing,” but he's distracted. There's movement from the temple, a slim figure suddenly dashing out and heading straight for them.

When Thor recognizes him, all of the Universe fades away. This is not the first time Ikol has been to Thor the only thing of vibrant movement in a world otherwise washed out to dull, still monochrome. The first time that that insubstantial form has felt his only solid anchor. Not the first time that Ikol's call of “Thor!” has been the only sound Thor's ears cared to hear.

Thor's immediate thought is that this is how death is. That Laufey's answers did not satisfy, that there must have been bloodshed, that Thor must have fallen, and all these details simply shed from his mind as he shed from his flesh; that as he endeavored always to be pure of heart, as a gift to him Ikol has been sent to take Thor home.

But he can hear his own harsh breath, the distant, uneasy shifting of his men around him – there has not yet been fighting. No one has moved. And he is not the only one staring at Ikol as the ghost slips through the Jötun ranks to approach him. Ikol is wounded – the skin not hidden by his leggings and tunic marred by angry, jagged scars.

The final detail Thor notices is the deep imprints Ikol's bare feet leave in the snow with each bound forward. Thor has barely time to comprehend before Ikol slams into him with such force Thor is forced back a step, Ikol throwing his arms around Thor's neck and clutching Thor as if he will disappear to smoke if he does not hold tight enough. Thor can do nothing but clutch him in return, marveling at the solid _flesh_ of him.

Even the howling wind is muted to Thor's ears, but he finally hears Ikol chanting, over and over, “You found me, You found me. You swore you would and you found me.” Thor's knees give, but he only clutches Ikol tighter to him as they fall to kneel in the snow.

Ikol pulls away eons before Thor is ready for there to be space between them, but it's only so Ikol can frame Thor's face with splayed fingers, his palms achingly solid against Thor's cheeks.

“Ikol,” he whispers. “How?”

“You found me,” Ikol whispers back, though the wind is surely carrying their voices to each corner of this realm. “I wanted not to deceive you. I swear it. I was locked away, kept hidden and abused and used terribly by a terrible, cruel king. You were my salvation. It was by chance I found you and you were all that kept me sane and whole. I did not think you would ever find me.”

Thor will kill him. Politics and treaties and any other inconsequential considerations aside, Thor will knock that smirk off of Laufey's face and then Laufey's head from his shoulders.

“Is our bond what led you to me? You must forgive me – I did so in some wild hope that it would lead you to me, as I myself could not lead you.”

“Bond? You married us,” Thor realizes. “It was you.”

“You know?” For a moment, Ikol's smile fades, and he looks uncertain. Then the uncertainty is wiped from his expression and he says, “It does not distress you? You would recognize our bond?”

_Recognize_ it? No force living or dead would he ever permit to sever it. “I would scream it so that even Valhalla’s halls echo with my voice,” Thor swears.

“My Thor.” Ikol's fingers shape Thor's face with aching gentleness. “Would you also…” He hesitates.

He cannot possibly believe there is _anything_ he could ask of Thor that Thor would not turn inside out the realms to accomplish? “Anything,” Thor breathes.

“Would you avenge me? The wrongs that were done to me by that cruel king?”

“I swear it,” Thor says, and then he bellows such that sheets of ice from far-off spires crash to the ground with glacier-sloth, “I swear I will avenge the wrongs done to you!”

“My Thor,” Ikol murmurs again, and then his fingers slide into Thor's hair and tugs him that final space closer, his open mouth pressed to Thor's.

Thor's heart _sings_ with their melody, all thoughts of battle fled, all weariness lifted. He has everything here in his arms. He slides his mouth along Ikol's, tangles their tongues together, steals into his mouth every soft sound Ikol makes.

Ikol wears no boots, no cloak. When even through those garments Thor can feel chill overtaking Ikol, Thor presses them even closer together that his heat might steal into him. But then biting frostbite spreads over his lips and Thor jerks back, the skin of his mouth already cracked and bleeding.

The green of Ikol's eyes bleeds to amused red.

The Jötun prince licks his kiss-swollen lips, leisurely and lasciviously. “How delicious,” he murmurs.

**End Act I**


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Revised chapter posted August 2014.**

**Act II: Lost**

_Hogun_

Hogun has failed.

The howling of the bitterly cold wind is the only sound in the wake of Thor's announcement. Hogun barely feels its chill for the coldness creeping through his mind.

The All-Father gave Hogun one task in exchange for freedom and life, and that one task was to keep watch over Thor. Hogun had _known_. He'd _known_ , all along, that the Jötun could shapeshift and that Loki had inquired relentlessly of Thor. He had known that imprisonment had made of Loki a mad creature driven by personal loathing of Odin, and so how naturally that loathing would extend to Thor. Hogun had known but he'd never said. He'd kept the Jötun's secrets, all because of that one spark of kinship Hogun had felt for Loki so long ago.

“Is that…?” Fandral, beside him, murmurs.

“It can't be,” Volstagg says, just as hushed.

Hogun knows who they mean. Thor Odinson's long lost love. Likely the worst kept secret in all the realms. Everyone knows the day the Odinson stopped calling the rain and thunder. Even Hogun knew, and that was long before he was called Giselric and he called Asgard home. Everyone knows of Thor's not-quite indiscrete inquiries wherever he traveled. Everyone knows the purpose that drove Thor to Utgarda's impossible challenges.

“If it is, why would he allow him to be caged? Why Thor's anger at his presence in the weapons vault?” Sif whispers. “It makes no sense.”

But it does, if one knows that the Jötun can shapeshift. If one knows how the Jötun can turn insubstantial and walk through walls. If one knows that Thor did not know either of those things.

Hogun knew. He knew, and he'd kept his selfish silence, and this is now his fault even though he could never have predicted such an outcome. And even now he keeps his mouth closed and swallows the confessions stuck in his throat.

But Thor knew nothing and now has sworn revenge against his own father. Odin All-Father won't always sleep, and when he wakes – if he finds out what Hogun's silence has wrought – well. The freedom and life he gave Hogun he can just as easily take away, can he not?

“I am so weary, _darling_ ,” Loki says, still clasped in Thor's arms. “Please, let us leave. Take me home with you.”

Some of the other Asgardians shift and murmur, and Thor turns quickly to look over his shoulder, as if only recalling he has an audience. He eventually must find the wits to say to Laufey, “Do not imagine that this is resolved,” but evidently _not_ the wits to respond to Laufey's taunting rejoinder. “Of course not,” Laufey calls to their turned backs. “We eagerly await your promised revenge.”

The Asgardian force is barely touched down on the Bifröst bridge before Thor – slack and docile with bleak bewilderment – is seized upon by his council and hurried to the palace and behind locked doors. Sif and Fandral are quick to follow, but Volstagg falls behind and lingers next to Hogun. Loki is nothing but wide, pleased grins. That distracted, restless boy Hogun once met in the weapons vault bears as little resemblance to this grinning deceiver as the sullen, silent Jötun locked away and turned away from the taunts and jeers heaped upon him. The Asgardians who had accompanied them to Jötunheimr continue to murmur to one another and openly stare at Loki, who now stands before Heimdall, tilting his head this way and that while the gatekeeper regards him in turn.

“I have looked down at you, gatekeeper, from a high perch,” Loki says. Another tilt. “And up at you from a low one, but never before,” he straightens, “eye to eye.”

“Does the angle make such a difference?” Heimdall asks.

Loki barks a startled laugh and blinks rapidly. “Hah! I wasn't – you answered me.” That pleased smile still playing along his lips, Loki turns on his heel. He's taken only a step before Hogun surprises himself by demanding, “You will not apologize?”

Hogun recalls keenly the disastrous, confusing day when the All-Father fell to sudden sleep. Recalls rushing forward to fight the Jötnar keeping Heimdall at bay under thick layers of ice and arriving too slowly – they'd escaped through the rift before he could reach them. This is by far the least damage Loki had caused that day, but Loki's careless disregard for the cracks in Heimdall's golden armor left by that onslaught infuriates Hogun as the other damages do not. Perhaps, Hogun thinks, as his fists close around the slashes upon his palms which suddenly throb, because Hogun can only image what secrets of Loki's that _Heimdall_ kept.

Another brief, barked laugh. “I highly doubt I will,” Loki says.

He turns from Hogun, dismissing him, and heads along the length of the bridge. The Asgardians, staring and glancing uncertainly between Hogun and Loki, part easily. Loki, walking forward a few steps and then turning and a few steps walking backwards, eyes darting from sight to sight but never meeting the gaze of those gathered, treads with seemingly easy confidence that the way will be so parted.

Then one Asgardians steps forward and says, “You are he? You are he whom our Thor loved and lost?”

Loki's face attempts several odd expressions at once, and then he shakes his head and settles on a wide smile. “I am he,” he says. “How I despaired at the thought my love would never find me.”

“Then it is an honor,” the Asgardians says. He clasps Loki's arm and says, “Fear not. The All-Father will avenge what cruelties that monster inflicted upon you.”

“Oh, I do not doubt that. My darling is a man of his word,” Loki says. “I know he would never find solace with an unfulfilled oath on his shoulders. One of those things I do adore best about him.”

Other Asgardians soon crowd forward, thumping Loki's back and shaking his hand and welcoming him.

“What is he playing at?” Volstagg says, under his breath that none but Hogun can hear. “What is _Thor_ playing at? If this is who he sought, how could he allow him to suffer in that cage? Is this – is he a danger, do you think?” Volstagg shakes his head. “I don't know whether to join them in shaking his hand or march him right back down to the vault.”

“I have no more idea than you,” Hogun says.

“Does this mean – the oath Thor swore…we should go to where the All-Father rests. Make sure he is guarded.”

“No,” Hogun says. “Loki does not want to harm the All-Father himself.” He wants _Thor_ to do so. Loki, of this at least Hogun is certain, is the type to have others do his dirty work for him. Particularly if it causes grief for all those involved.

“Then we ought at least stop him! Keep him contained until Thor decides what to do.”

“Volstagg,” Hogun murmurs. “Look at the cheer around us. If we act any differently we'll only cause alarm. We don't yet know how Thor will respond. I will follow Loki. You should stay and see what Heimdall will reveal.”

“If you think that is best,” Volstagg says, though unhappily. “Then after I shall see what word my Brihtwyn has.”

“I doubt there's been time for rumor to reach her,” Hogun says.

Fondness softens Volstagg's face, as always it does whenever he thinks of the barmaid. “Trust me, my friend. She knew what happened before we did, and we were there.”

They part, and Hogun pushes through the crowd. He catches up to Loki as the Jötun reaches the palace steps.

“I asked not for company,” Loki says, but without malice. He stops to gaze out at the vast capital city below. His blue skin glistens under Asgard's heat and his scars seem to glow.

“I mean to make myself available as guide,” Hogun says.

“Hmmm,” Loki says, backing up a handful of steps. He wipes absently at his brow, flicking away the sweat. “Thoughtful, and nearly convincing. But this has been my home longer than it has been yours. And I am not so complacent as you. There is no corner here I do not know.”

As Loki gleefully leads them through the palace halls, Hogun wonders if his once-people far away on Álfheimr are the only ones appreciative of discretion. Certainly it is not a common Asgardian trait, and he is beginning to suspect it is not a common Jötun trait, either, with how thoughtlessly Loki is giving so much of himself away. To what gain does Loki reveal so much, and at so little prompting?

Loki lingers at some doorways, ignores others, backtracks some corridors, and circles several palace wings. But no matter their pace, the news of his arrival is one step faster and whispers one step behind them. As one of Thor's constant companions, Hogun is no stranger to such attention. But usually Thor's presence deflects notice of his own. Loki seems to have the opposite effect – gazes slide from Loki to Hogun, calculating, wondering why Hogun walks beside him.

“Are you lost?” Hogun says, when Loki turns about-face again.

“Not lost,” Loki says, grinning at a young servant boy who hesitantly peers around a doorway before quickly ducking away. _Being seen_ , Hogun realizes and notes. _Ensuring_ everyone sees him.

“But I _am_ grown tired from all this…excitement,” he says with relish. “I shall to my chambers.”

“You return so readily to your cage?” Hogun says.

Loki's lip curls briefly. “Hardly.” He refuses to speak to Hogun, then, as if the very suggestion has offended him. _Quick to take offense_ , Hogun adds to his growing list of Loki's indiscretions. _Quick to twist my intentions._

“These rooms are Thor's,” Hogun says, when he notices where Loki has halted them.

“Strange you would say they are not mine,” Loki says. With a flourish, he pushes both doors wide open, his own arms spread wide. “When they are glutted with my affects.”

He freezes on the threshold, however, riveted by something inside. “Now _that_ will not do,” he mutters. Laying his hand against the doorframe, ice crawls from his fingers, travels along the wall, and pours in thick layers over the tall mirror near Thor's study. Then he curls his fingers to a fist and knocks – the trail and mirror all shatter and splinter. “Much improved,” Loki says, already brightening.

_Traumatized_ , Hogun notes, refusing to allow himself to feel pity. _Possesses still his Seidr._ If there were any doubt Thor's love unrequited, this settles it. “ _Your_ affects?” Hogun says, more to see how Loki responds than because he doubts the truth of it. How many small riddles are being answered – almost as many as are arriving in their place to puzzle anew.

“ _All_ mine,” Loki says. He darts around the room – releasing all of the birds, the snakes, and the tarantulas, to flutter about him and slither and crawl along at his feet; tracing fingers along the vases and trinkets and the thick tapestries hanging from the archways; admiring and draping himself in the scores of necklaces and rings and armbands shining with enough precious metal and gems to purchase a decent-sized city and all inside of it.

“I want the Casket of Ancient Winters,” he says. “Be a good subject and fetch it for me.” When Hogun does not move, he waves an imperial arm and says, “ _Now_. I have been made a king at a king's oath, so do as I command.”

“Queen,” Hogun says, although he doubts even that is true. Surely Thor understands how he has been deceived and is this second explaining to his council what has happened. Surely they are even now dissolving the marriage. News must be traveling as swiftly as flames through a forest.

Loki pauses, eyes narrowed and clearly taken aback. “Oh,” he says, and then, expression clearing, “I'd forgotten your kind's obsession with that distinction.” He strokes the jewelry along one arm and then says, “But you are still my subject?”

Doubtful, Hogun thinks, adding to his list, _insecure_. “I am subject to my queen,” he says.

“That is not what I asked,” Loki says, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Subject to _me_?”

Refusing to be cowed, Hogun says, “If you are my queen, then yes.”

“And am I?”

“That is not for me to decide.”

The threat uncoils with a barked laugh – no, is not uncoiled. Postponed. That is something Hogun had learned during that year's worth of nights in the cold, gloomy weapons vault. _This one does forget slights. Not ever._ “Your company,” Loki says, all wide, amused grins once more. “I forgot. It was not my least favorite of all those I had to endure.”

Loki looks suddenly past him. Hogun turns just as Queen Frigga glides inside the room, gracefully sidestepping a passing serpent. She stands before Loki, serene. “I am Frigga,” she says. “What may I call you?”

“Your queen,” Loki says.

Queen Frigga reaches out a hand, carefully scratching the neck of one of the deadly owls that has settled on Loki's shoulders. “Thor, my son, my now king, your now husband – I love him as dearly as any mother could love her son. Even so, my confidence in his judgment is not absolute. He can be ill-tempered and unthinking. But _never_ do I question his heart. I welcome you to my home, now your home, Queen Loki.” Loki stares. The owl, making pleased noises, hops along Frigga's arm to settle instead on her shoulder. A second joins it. She continues, “I know, dear, that Laufey can be cruel. If ever you wish to speak of his cruelties, my sympathies are yours to call upon.”

“I would not – I wish not to speak of…” Loki trails off, clearly at a loss. Hogun has never seen him so flat-footed.

“Of course. Yet the offer stands should your mind ever change. Have now this time to acclimate. Thor will escape soon enough his council and be here for you. Take comfort in this: Asgard bears always many burdens. But she is strong and ever-lasting. Though she is sometimes struck by sudden ill-fortune, never is she paralyzed.”

She taps one owl and then the other, and each agreeably flutters away. She then reaches for the embroidered, golden scarf that winds through her hair, unthreads it, and meticulously folds it into a small, neat square. She places the square against Loki's frozen blue forehead and presses a kiss through the cloth.

Then she sweeps out, though Loki does not appear to register her departure. He lifts one hand and almost absently conjures a strange paper-bird in his palm. Loki stares at it, ignoring all else.

Has Thor not _said_? Has Thor not _realized_? Maybe he hasn't. Hogun hadn't heard all of what the Thor and Loki whispered to one another while they embraced on Jötunheimr. Who knows what further lies Loki has weaved? Hogun cannot be selfish again and allow Loki to again deceive Thor – and everyone else. Whatever the consequences, Hogun will bear them.

The queen is only a corridor away when Hogun reaches her and says, “Your majesty, a word? Please? It is urgent.”

“Then do speak,” she says, halting.

Glancing around to ensure that no one is nearby to overhear, Hogun says, “I know not what Thor has revealed, but–” She raises a pointed eyebrow, and he amends, “That is, what his majesty the king said, but Loki–”

“I am aware,” she interrupts.

“The king confessed–?”

“Nothing. In this of all matters my son has learned discretion. But is Thor not always the exception?” She sighs and turns to the column besides her, unfolding the scarf and threading it once more through her graying, golden hair. Addressing her own faint reflection, she says, “I often asked my Odin what good could come from locking that child away. And in that of all cages. But he has oft heeded too much that ill-gotten prophet-well.” Turning to Hogun, she says, “What else?” Taking his confounded silence for answer, the queen says, “Your concern, however, is appreciated. Keep close eye on him.”

One task, in exchange for freedom and life.

There is only one answer Hogun can give. He says, “I will, my queen.”

* * *

_Thor_

Thor's council flail around him in a confused commotion. Half of them are yelling at him for confronting Laufey when they'd explicitly advised against it. Half of them are yelling at him for not taking a stronger stand in the face of Laufey's trespasses. They want a transcript of every word exchanged. They want Thor's interpretation of every nuance in Laufey's expression. They worry what the other realms will think of Thor's aggression. They fret over what the realms will think of Thor's passiveness. They wave around the missives that had begun arriving from different officials and dignitaries around the realms as soon as Thor touched down on Jötunheimr.

They demand to know of this oath they've heard that Thor swore.

They demand to know of Thor's relationship with Loki Laufeyson, who has not been seen since the war between Asgard and Jötunheimr. He was widely assumed to be among the casualties.

Their words sound blurry in Thor's ears. Their meaning doesn't focus in Thor's mind. Thor's mind is still back on Jötunheimr.

For a single, blessed, stunning moment, the burdens on Thor's shoulders had been without weight. _I can be worthy_ , Thor had known to his marrow, with his Ikol alive and for the first time in his arms.

No, not Ikol. Loki Laufeyson.

There _is_ no Ikol.

The knowledge oughtn't hurt as much as it does.

Thor always knew he'd been searching for a ghost.

His council continue to argue and gesture and they groan each time the doors swing open and a servant slips in with another stack of correspondence. They throw question after question at Thor and then immediately turn to one another and resume bickering without awaiting his response.

With whom did Thor spend his childhood, then? With whom, exactly, did Thor read and laugh and share all his triumphs? For whom, precisely, did Thor amass all those treasures and pets? Thor thinks of the pale ghost who visited him night after night. He thinks of how the ghost had sung and Thor had inexpertly strung a lute's strings and how even now Thor can hear their melody in his heart.

He thinks of the Jötun in the weapons vault and the paper-birds that fluttered in his hands. The harsh taunts Thor and his companions had flung at him. The vicious accusations the Jötun had flung in return. The coldness in the Jötun's eyes when he'd looked at Thor.

Thor tries to reconcile the two as the same being, and he cannot. Or cannot bring himself to, because to do so he must acknowledge one of the two personas as false and Thor fears he knows which of the two that must be.

“Your majesty, are you listening!” Aldman shouts.

Blinking, Thor looks around and realizes his council have fallen silent and are all looking at him expectantly.

“How do you know Loki Laufeyson?”Aldman asks.

“Why did you bring him here?” Hackett asks.

Almalrica asks, “Is it true what they are saying? That you are wedded?”

What can Thor possibly say? “I knew him as a child,” he says slowly, since that is true.

“How is that possible?” Ingrid says.

“He was – far from home,” Thor says. Also a truth. “By chance our paths crossed. We became – close.”

“Close enough to wed in secret?” Aldman says. The disbelief apparent in his voice is clear on the faces of the rest of the council.

“We thought –” Thor hesitates. How can he admit that he hadn't known they were wed? That he hadn't even known the other boy's true identity? That he hasn't the slightest clue what Ikol – no, what _Loki_ intends to do next, but would guess that it is probably not going to be in Asgard's best interests? His council already seem to think little enough of his wisdom as it is! Thor wishes, absurdly, that Ikol were here to tell him what to say; Ikol was always good at coming up with lies.

Oh. Thor thinks about that for a moment, and then he resolutely pushes that thought far, far away.

“We thought no one would approve,” Thor settles on.

“Yet on Jötunheimr not an hour past you swore before all to honor it?” Lamont says.

Of course Thor had. It was _Ikol_. Thor hadn't spared a single thought to consider the crown on his head or that his words automatically placed one on Ikol's. All other considerations – succession or whether Ikol is fit to rule or whether Ikol _wanted_ to rule – had seemed irrelevant.

And Ikol – no, not Ikol. Loki. Loki Laufeyson hadn't given Thor any time to think anything through, had he?

It was quite a coincidence, wasn't it, that of all the rooms in all of Asgard, Loki had just happened to find his.

“I did,” Thor says. And then because he needs to stop relying on the council of the ghost in his head and begin relying on those actually charged and trusted with counseling him, he says honestly, “We lost touch. I had not seen him in ages, and in that moment I didn't consider what anyone else would think. I just wanted to be with him.”

A pause, then,

“A political marriage,” Aldman breathes.

“A truce built of love,” Ingrid murmurs.

“A peaceful joining of Asgard and _Jötunheimr_ ,” Harold exclaims.

His council all begin speaking rapidly once more, but this time with excitement. They talk of truce and peace and what stability this could bring to the realm. Suddenly they are praising golden Thor for his wisdom and foresight. They say they always knew Thor would be a gentle and just leader. Thor barely blinks and the plans for Thor's official coronation are brought out and scrapped so they can be redone and expanded as coronation and wedding both. Arguments arise again, and now they berate him for giving them so little warning to accommodate the expanded logistics.

This is everything Thor has ever wanted, except it is nothing he wanted. It's a _lie_. Loki has forced Thor into this untenable position, has deceived him so thoroughly that Thor doesn’t even know what is real or what danger to arm himself against.

Loki has lied and _lied_ to him.

Blinding anger rises in Thor and he stands, his chair thumping to the floor behind him. Without a word he turns and leaves, and with each step forward his anger thrums louder and louder. He ignores his council, who rose with him and follow him, shouting about plans and paperwork. He ignores Sif and Fandral and Baldur, all of whom had been waiting outside the council meeting and call his name as he sweeps past them.

He'll banish Loki, that's what he'll do. He'll demand Loki disappear entirely and leave Asgard in peace and Thor to grieve for what he's lost. What he never had.

He ignores the other Asgardians he passes on his way, though even in the face of his anger they don't ignore him. By the time he reaches his chambers, he's certain that if _one more_ person offers him congratulations, just one more, he'll lift Mjölnir from his belt and knock that person's teeth through their skull.

Thor opens his doors and steps through, and without turning he slams the doors behind him.

Ikol.

One glance at Ikol, laying on Thor's bed like he belongs there, and the jumbled mess in Thor's mind clears utterly. Not resolved, but put easily aside.

Thor knows exactly what he wants right at this moment, and it is so simple for all of its complications.

Thor is so very lost.

* * *

_Loki_

The doors shut with an echoing thud following Hogun's hasty departure. Gone to tell the queen what a naughty thing Loki has been? The paper-raven flutters and trills in his palm. The true birds around him, heads cocked and bewildered at the noise, trill tentatively back.

Or will Hogun keep his own council? Depends what is at stake. He'd blurt all to defend his honor, his _reputation_ , false one that it is. To defend Thor's? Loki does not know. He blows gently at the paper-raven, and it flutters up to join its flesh-and-blood brethren.

Thor was taller than Loki recalls.

He shakes his head to dispel that thought.

No matter either way Hogun chooses. None. The queen's… _sympathies_ change little. Her withdrawal of them would change little more. He'd needed to start rumors, and whether they started on the bridge or with Hogun or with the queen they should be propagating at speed throughout the realm already. Everyone will know Thor is married to the Jötun prince. Everyone will know Thor swore to his so-called beloved an oath of revenge. And sooner or later, someone will figure out precisely whom against. And that someone will tell someone else, and between heartbeats everyone will know that, too.

Thor will never do it. He is a loyal son and would never – not in a thousand years, not for any amount of treasure or honor, not on pain of death – strike against Odin.

They'll call him oath-breaker, and it won't be untrue. They'll doubt his word. They'll doubt his wisdom. They'll doubt his rule. They'll say amongst themselves that the All-Father's oaths are hastily given and then left unfulfilled. Loki has felled him in a single day without lifting a finger.

Thor's face had shone with happiness upon seeing him. No hatred. No _pity_. Loki had almost forgotten himself in Thor's embrace. Maybe would have, at least for a moment longer, if Laufey-king had not stood towering behind them.

He shakes his head again to dispel the remembered feel of Thor's arms around him.

Loki chose. He chose, and in the end what choice at all was it to choose the one who'd freed him from his cage over the one who'd mocked him while he was trapped inside it? Once decided, there was no gain from further indecision. What happened next was almost too easy. Loki had thought he'd have to work to make Thor swear such an oath. But Thor, as ever, rose to the occasion before him.

Convincing Thor to still recognize their marriage and allow Loki continued free reign of Asgard shouldn't be any more difficult. And then, oh, what discord Loki means to spread.

They'd called him the Odinson's long lost love. They'd called him Thor's beloved. The epithets – the lie of them – burns in Loki's ears. 

On the bridge, Loki's fingers had itched to draw Asgardian blood. They were all so welcoming, as if Loki does not know what they think of his people. But Loki had restrained himself; he's playing a longer game.

But still his fingers itched and itch even still. Or rather, all of him itches in this heat. He scratches irritably at his forehead, brushing away that gentle kiss. The gentle rain that's begun to fall outside only makes the air humid. It is too _warm_. There is the problem. No wonder Loki's head spins. Once more in this heat, but at least this time around there is no reason to suffer. He can wear any skin he so chooses – every one who looks upon him knows full well what skin he had been born in.

A moment's thought and he's shifted to the Odinson's precious Ikol. The scars do not shift. Loki's control over his flesh is absolute, and yet he cannot mentally touch the mirror's scars or place them into his understanding of how his body fits and shifts. Under Asgard's harsh sun streaming through the balcony doors, the light glinting off of the scattered rainfall, the scars bother him as they had not under Jötunheimr's muted blue sky. He concentrates and they fade slightly, but he's gasping at the effort and the moment his concentration wavers they reassert. Fine. No matter…

No. No, very much a matter. Suddenly he cannot _stand_ them, wants them away, wants his flesh under his own control – pale skin smooth and blue skin unblemished of any patterns but those he was born to. But each attempt at stifling the scars is more exhausting and yields briefer success than the prior. Soon enough he's collapsed back on the bed, more worn than if he'd swum the entire length of Jötunheimr's oceans, a breath away from passing out.

That's when the doors slam once more open, Thor tall and imposing and blank, paused in the entranceway. Asgardians are crowded behind him, their pleas and demands for Thor's attention blending together into incomprehensible cacophony. Thor steps through and without turning slams the door behind him.

Thor stares at him. Taller than Loki recalls, and Loki's lips suddenly tingle, remembering the kiss between them.

Thor removes his belt and tosses it and the hammer hanging from it to the floor, and then with no more care than if it were a twig caught in his hair, Thor removes his crown and tosses it to the side also. It is still rattling on the ground, a dozen owl heads turned in unison to watch the way the jewels atop it flicker and shine, when in a few great strides Thor is by the bed and then on it beside him.

Loki blinks rapidly and tries to scramble backwards, but his exhausted limbs make him slow and clumsy. He's stunned that Thor is so soon turned to violence – though he should not be. He _knows_ of Thor's temper, knows what Loki's action will have done to him, but still it did not occur to him. At _no point_ in his scheming had he considered he would have to physically fight with Thor. How unforgivably careless. His mind is sputtering, he's barely reached the bed's edge, when Thor grabs him around the waist and drags him back. He wraps strong, unyielding arms around Loki, trapping Loki so that his back is flush against Thor's chest. And then…

Nothing.

Thor simply holds him, breath warm on Loki's neck.

“I am weary,” Thor says, the fingers of one hand splaying across Loki's belly. Beginning to panic, _warm_ even though he is in Asgardian form, trapped – Loki fights the hold, but Thor only holds him tighter. “You have feigned affection for me since we were children. Surely allowing me to pretend for one _moment_ more will not unduly damage you,” Thor says, voice rough. And then softer, disbelieving, “You know everything of me. _Everything_. I kept no secrets from you. And I knew not even your name.”

Loki hopes that _burns_. He hopes it _ruins_. He hopes it breaks Thor to jagged bits and pieces. Yet he subsides, and Thor's arms relax into a more forgiving hold.

Giving Thor this one moment's respite is easier than Loki thought it would be. Recovered mostly from his earlier efforts, he matches the pace of his breath to Thor's. Thor's thumb sneaks under his tunic to rub softly against his skin, his nose pressed now to Loki's neck.

Loki lists in his head the number of times he's physically touched another body – felt another's heat seep through to his own skin.

It is a short list.

He'd forgotten. Of all things to have forgotten. Loki may never have been Thor's beloved, he may have only been a friend and an entertainment on lonely nights, but they had taken true comfort in one another's company. What an unfortunate thing to suddenly recall.

Though any second Loki means to call off this truce, it is Thor who actually breaks it. “What is your intent?” he asks, words hot against Loki's skin.

_Humiliate all of Asgard, beginning with you_ , Loki thinks. He says, “I told you plainly. Revenge against he who imprisoned me.”

“And that is all?” Thor says, his disbelief plain.

“Is that such a small purpose? Such an unreasonable one?”

“What purpose then to marrying yourself to me?”

“Do you not recall?”

“I recall every moment of our time together,” Thor says. “I do not recall a wedding.”

“Then you weren't paying attention,” Loki says. “What a surprise.”

Loki feels Thor's lips curve in a brief smile, then drop. “And me? You mean harm against me?”

“Not if you do as you promised.”

“If you would have me do as I mistakenly promised, then you mean harm against me.”

“Not one day married and reunited and already you're siding against me?”

“Just answer me, Loki. Tell me why you did this.” Thor's tone is all but pleading. “Why involve me at all? Why come to my chambers that first night? Tell me the purpose of our union.”

What purpose – as if Loki has been planning carefully and meticulously a course since he'd left the womb. As if Loki hadn't been as young and as lost as Thor when they'd met. Even so, the answer comes swiftly to his mind. _I will never again be used._ Be in a position to _be_ used. The words then come swiftly to his tongue. “I wanted to be a ruler. No one dares tell a ruler of Asgard what to do.”

Thor huffs a humorless laugh. “Then you've not yet met my council. They do little _but_ tell me what to do and spend every moment searching to undermine the scant decisions I've myself made. I do not believe even because they disagree, but because I relied on my own counsel rather than theirs.”

“No wonder they are screeching,” Loki says. The Asgardians can still be plainly heard arguing in the hallway. “Seeking to undermine your choice of mate, are they?”

“They're screeching at _me_ , not you,” Thor says. “They've already made the arrangements for a coronation. Changing the plans to also include wedding celebrations doubles at least the feast's duration, changes those invited, alters a thousand details I am assured are all crucial. They're piqued at the lack of notice. If you take one step outside these rooms you are going to be assaulted by a dozen seamstresses and tailors.”

“Wedding celebrations,” Loki repeats. “ _Coronation_? You are already crowned – _I_ am already crowned!” Loki thought he would have to convince only Thor – not the entire realm!

“I already wear the crown,” Thor agrees. He does not seem overly concerned that even now a trio of tarantulas and a pair of snakes are on the ground battling over the right to nest in the crown's hollow. “Not everyone is convinced I am ready for its burden. I'm assured a measure of ceremony will go a long way towards remedying that. Not to mention that the circumstances of my crowning were not…joyous. I assume you know why. A reason to be merry is sorely needed.”

Loki bites back a groan. How Thor has survived all these years of Loki's absence is unfathomable. Is there no one in all of Asgard around to knock sense into his fool head? Even a shred of self-preservation? Loki should have his work cut out convincing Thor to recognize their bond and Loki's place in Asgard after what Loki has done. And here Thor is making Loki's arguments for him.

Though this could not be progressing better should Loki have planned it, even so he has to also bite his tongue not to explain to Thor how he should actually be handling this conversation, not that Thor had ever listened to Loki's advice. But though it has been a while, he had for quite some time been Thor's confidant. Easy to fall into easy habits.

Instead, not wanting to acquiesce too readily lest that actually do the trick of arousing Thor's suspicions, he scoffs, “And you think your marriage to a Jötun would be cause for celebration? I am well aware the extent of your people's…tolerance.”

Thor does not immediately answer, and when he does, his voice is low. “My companions informed me I have been less discrete than I'd thought.” Loki does not even attempt to muffle a snort. Indeed. “There is no place I have visited where I have not inquired of my lost Ikol. Fandral says when my back is turned he and Volstagg and Hogun would be pestered for detail, asked incessantly what reward there could be for finding you. That is what everyone believes is the reason I thirsted for Jötunheimr – for you. That my purpose had from the start been to retrieve you. You could be of any origin and it would not matter.” Thor laughs against him, hollow. Loki's stomach twists. “You are Thor's beloved and found at last. What reason have they _not_ to celebrate?”

There it is again – Thor's beloved. Does Thor think him so stupid? “I know what I am and what I am not to you,” Loki says. “And I do not believe you. I think you're stalling. This is no doubt only the first of many celebrations. There will be one after another, keeping everyone occupied, so that no one remembers that you have an oath to fulfill.”

“I – what you've asked of me,” Thor's throat clicks on a swallow. “I – I cannot.”

“But you swore an oath!”

“I know.” Thor sounds ruined. He sounds like the weight of an oath-breaker's reputation is already on his shoulders.

He deserves it, Loki tells himself. He deserves worse. Loki knows this for certain, and yet his voice betrays uncertainty when he begins, “Thor –”

“No,” Thor says. His grip tightens briefly around Loki and he brings one hand to close gently over Loki's mouth. Oh, Loki has never before thought of heat as something pleasant. He should put a stop to this before he grows any more accustomed. “No more. Say nothing. Nothing sweet, nothing kind. I will believe no more of such from you. You have bled me enough.”

“You have never listened to me at all,” Loki snaps. “You are the one allowing strangers into your rooms and your confidence with nary a question. I will speak as I please.”

“How fortunate for you I am so blind,” Thor says harshly. He releases Loki – Loki does not want him to, and if that is not atrocious knowledge – and sits at the bed's edge, back to Loki. Loki takes the opportunity to pad to the bookcases along the walls, searching the titles, but when he finds the volume it will not budge no matter how he pulls at it.

Thor goes to him and wordlessly removes the volume. At Loki's direction he turns it to a particular page. “Here. Read this passage to me,” Loki says, tapping the page. Thor's grip on the book tightens so that his knuckles turn white. “To yourself, then,” Loki amends.

It is brief, more a footnote than anything, with scant detail. An Elvish lord banished to lonely exile on Midgard. How he found and fell for a human, banished from her own peoples. They'd met in secret, and though they dared not speak aloud lest they be overhead by those who meant them to suffer, they would find one another by song and the melody strung from stringed instrument. They were found out and separated. Yggdrasil, so says this account, took pity on them and allowed the song between them to bind their hearts together that they could always find one another. And for their connection to be ever reflected in the ever-records.

Loki had become adept at anticipating which passages Thor actually paid attention to as he read aloud each night to Loki. Thor had not even heeded these words as he'd read them. And while usually this story would have been too saccharine for Loki's tastes as well, he'd become consumed with the thought of these lost, lonely fools. Of the connection between them made real no matter the distance that separated them.

He sees the moment Thor understands. But Thor only says, “I feel less a fool now.” He has not lifted his gaze from the book.

Loki snorts. “How so?”

“This means you have fooled even Yggdrasil itself that you held me dear in your heart. What chance had I ever against your lies?”

Though it ruins _everything_ to do so, Loki blurts, “It was not all lies.”

“Most of it was,” Thor says.

Loki flinches in the face of Thor's studied impassiveness. Thor still stares at the book rather than at Loki. “Most of it was,” Loki agrees quietly.

Thor nods. He says, “I will not allow you the revenge you seek. But I can promise you rule.”

“Oh?” Loki says.

“You may care nothing for the realms or the people that populate them, but I very much do. Asgard's position is precarious, and if made any moreso I cannot protect the realms as it is my sworn responsibility to do so,” Thor says. “I cannot have the truth of the oath I swore made public knowledge. And too many people already believe you to be my beloved found. I would ask you – beg you – keep silent of my oath, and pretend in public to be my dutiful wife. You need not when no witnesses are around, and I would not require you to suffer a queen's responsibilities. Only that you do not thwart mine as king and that you do this realm no harm.”

“And you believe _you_ could pretend to be my dutiful husband?” Loki scoffs. “You, with your heart ever vulnerable on your sleeve?”

“If I must,” Thor says.

“You could lie to _everyone_? Even to those trustworthy companions of yours?”

Here Thor falters. “They would know the truth. They already know some of it. I would not need lie to them.”

“Then let us hope they are as trustworthy as you think, hmm?” Loki says, shrugging a shoulder as if it is not matter to him. “Not that I am convinced it will even matter. We have not yet settled why ever I should agree to these terms at all.”

“Is it not what you want, also?”

“But I am being denied half of what I want,” Loki tuts.

Thor sighs and he says, “What would you ask of me in exchange?”

Loki twists one of his many necklaces through his fingers. “Apologize to me. I want a sincere, heartfelt apology. Do so and I shall do as you ask. But do not for one moment think I will forget what you've promised me.”

There is stunned silence. “Apologize to _you_?” Thor finally says. “You must be jesting.”

“You've said quite terrible things to me in the past,” Loki says admonishingly. “As did your companions.”

“You said worse about _yourself_!” Thor says. Which is nonsense, but before Loki can call him on it, Thor appears to steel himself and continue. “Fine! If that is what it will take, then I say this, Iko–” Thor grimaces. Takes a deep breath. Recovers. “Loki: I am truly and sincerely sorry for any and all cruel words I spoke to you.”

Thor is _confounding_. That is the only conclusion Loki can reach. He is madder than Loki is, madder than Loki would be had he never ventured outside his mirror-cage to begin with and stumbled upon Thor's chambers. He already regrets this bargain, even though it is exactly what he'd sought. Loki cannot pretend. He cannot pretend he is pretending when it would be absurdly close to truth. Why did he think he could do this?

He opens his mouth to say he knows not what when the doors slam open _again_ , and this time it is Baldur slamming the doors shut behind him.

He strides up to Loki and flicks his gaze up and down Loki's form. Though Loki is still in Asgardian-form, Baldur recognizes him immediately. “It's true,” he says, tone flat. “You are Loki.”

“I am,” Loki says. He has not seen Baldur since Thor cracked his mirror-cage, trapping him inside. He wonders, with sudden unwelcome guilt, how troubled Baldur's nights have been with no lullabies to soothe.

Baldur's jaw works. “You said – and I _believed_ – and – and–”

Thor's confounding behavior has caused Loki to let down his guard. That can be the only explanation for how he is utterly unprepared and makes no attempt to dodge the fist that slams into his nose, collapsing him to the ground. “Never speak to me again,” Baldur hisses, and without another word storms once more out.

Wincing, Loki feels along his nose.

“Did you deserve that?” Thor asks.

Loki studies the blood smeared on his fingers. Faintly, he says, “An argument could be made.”

Thor nods. “Then I do not feel guilt for this.” He opens the doors once more and says, “My queen is ready for your services.” Without a backwards glance he leaves, and Loki is left to gape as a hoard of Asgardians wielding needle and measuring tape and cloth descend.

Unnoticed beside him, a group of bloodied and triumphant tarantulas nest inside Thor's discarded crown while the bloodied and defeated snakes slink away.

* * *

_Sigyn_

The ceremonies begin in the great throne room, and move to the feasting hall, and are now days later spread out across the vast palace gardens, scores of tables assembled and filled with warriors and dignitaries and royalty from across the realms. There are unending lines of servants serving unending courses of succulent delicacies and refilling goblets so swiftly they seem bottomless.

In the confusion of the latest venue change, Sigyn and Fandral seize the opportunity to sneak away for a quick tumble on the soft grass hidden behind one of the thickets of flowery bushes, far enough away from the merriment for privacy but close enough they can still hear it.

When they are catching their breath, Fandral says, “I do not like this. Not at all.”

“And to think you're known as the charming one,” Sigyn says.

“Oh, darling, my beautiful Sigyn, you twist my words!” Fandral says, clasping her hand and peppering kisses over her knuckles. “Not like our intimacy? Not _adore_ every second spent with you? Perish the very thought! I could more easily claim victory to Utgarda's challenges.” Sigyn grins and allows him to tug her closer. “I mean–” He waves a hand in the direction of the celebrations. “ _That_.”

“What's not to like?” Sigyn asks. Fandral keeps his lips to her hand and shakes his head.. “You can tell me,” Sigyn presses. “I can see how this weighs on you.” She brushes her fingers along Fandral's forehead and tucks a stray strand of golden hair behind his ear. “Burdens like these make one lonely. I would ease that burden for you, if you allow me.”

And as if he can hold his silence no longer, Fandral reveals everything to her – how they'd come across the Jötun in the weapons vault. How it was Odin All-Father, not Laufey, who'd imprisoned him. How Thor seemed to abhor him, and how they'd taunted him. How the crown has rent a chasm between Thor and his companions, and how Fandral wishes there was more he could do to mend it. How one day Thor ceased calling the rain and the thunder.

“How then did it come about that Thor agreed to such marriage if he also loathed him?” Sigyn says. “I don't follow.”

“I understand no more than you! He insists we not _worry_. That he has matters under control. But how could we not?” He sighs. “But how could we not do what he asks of us? Thor has enough people doubting him without those he calls friends added to the list. But I admit to you I do not like it. I do not like that _Thor_ does not like it less.”

Sigyn stands and gestures for Fandral to do the same. “Come with me,” she says. She leads Fandral back towards one of the many shrub archways half surrounding the feast, each leading to the mazes of flowers and topiary behind them. She combs fingers through her hair and smooths out her gown, while Fandral straightens his finery. From here, they have a perfect view of the festivities and the grand table at which the newly crowned couple sits.

“Look,” Sigyn says. “Look at our All-Father.” Although their newly _officially_ crowned All-Father does not exactly glow with happiness, he seems far from discontent. Or perhaps it is just those ever overflowing goblets from which all drink, and he'll find his discontent soon enough when the celebrations at last disperse and he is forced to sober.

One would think he'd learned his lesson when it comes to over-drinking.

“He is happy,” Sigyn says.

“Do you think?” Fandral says, in the voice of one who very much wants to believe something he fears untrue.

“I think he is happy,” Sigyn repeats. “And I think a happy king makes a good king.”

“But how can it be? Thor _loathed_ him. And Loki loathed him in return. What if Thor is in danger? Perhaps Loki is – is exhorting him somehow. Or maybe Thor does not even _know_ he is being tricked?”

“Even knowing all you've told me, I trust what I see with my own eyes. And I do not see danger. I see two men celebrating their union.”

“But–”

“You said yourself that Thor did not explain all,” Sigyn says. She leans her head on Fandral's shoulder. “You said yourself that what our king needs most is friends on his side. You are protective of your dear friend, and that is honorable and admirable. But look at them. And trust Thor. There is nothing to worry about.”

“Perhaps you're right,” Fandral says. He sighs again, but some of the despondency has lifted from him. “We've been out here too long. Come, we ought return.”

“I believe I need more respite from all this merriment,” Sigyn says. She kisses his cheek. “Go. I will find you later.”

Fandral nods and, after placing a proper kiss on her lips, finds his way back to Thor's table alongside Volstagg and Giselric. Sigyn lingers, half hidden beneath the archway. Birds and insects buzz irritatingly around her. She starts when a fluttering form settles on a nearby branch, thinking it the sneaky raven-spy Huginn or Muninn. But it is only a finch.

She turns back to studying the king and queen, both dressed in white finery decorated with golden metal accents. The queen, Loki, though in a form that makes him appear as an Asgardian, wears a silver crown with two sweeping horns Fandral says are the exact likeness of his Jötun horns. Thick blue blush is smeared in sharp slashes along his cheekbones. No one will mistake his origin.

“He's handsome,” she murmurs. This is something that has occupied her since first setting eyes upon him. “Don't you think?” Gracefully acknowledging that she is aware of him skulking behind her, Freyr steps forward and links one of his arms through one of hers.

“You would not think so were he in his true form,” Freyr says.

Loki murmurs something to Thor, who laughs loudly – Sigyn can almost hear his laughter from this distance. Thor is flushed with more than mead. The first few days had been more trying. Seated nearby with Fandral, she'd been curious to see Loki not only know the names of all of the warriors who Fandral has said irritate Thor the most, but personally invite them to come forward and regale them with tales. She is fairly certain that the fourth time Loki had prompted Bermar to _please_ tell them more, Thor had stomped on his foot.

Now, even from this distance, there is a careless, harmonious rhythm between them. It is not, Sigyn thinks, that Thor suddenly finds his queen's company enjoyable, but that he has given up denying that he does. Or perhaps Sigyn is being fanciful, and it is just the mead. “Why would you think not?” she asks.

“Because, Sigyn, you prefer pretty things.” He glances pointedly at Fandral. “And while Jötnar have their appeal, pretty is not a word one uses to describe them.”

Freyr, Sigyn suspects, sometimes mistakes her for Freyja, though they bear little resemblance. Sigyn does not prefer _pretty_ things; although – Sigyn glances also at Fandral – she is not opposed to them. No, what Sigyn likes most of all are things that are different on the inside than on the outside. The difference between the falseness one projects and the truth ripped from them.

Fandral is different when he is careless and wooing the ladies of the court than when Sign arbitrarily kicks him from her bed just to see him slip to sudden seriousness and stir with true anger. When she taunts his skill in bed until he finally sheds that charming selfless posturing and _takes_ his pleasure upon her. The difference between his showy swashbuckling when he's competing in some silly tournament and when he is suddenly set upon by a beast stronger than himself and reveals his true deadliness.

Loki, she thinks, wanting to be closer to better watch him, would never disappoint. She wants to know how he tricked Thor and still has Thor bestowing upon him that unwittingly besotted smile. She wants to be so tricked and trick him in turn.

“What now?” she says.

“Oh, Sigyn, look at you rushing ahead,” Freyr says. “Can we not simply enjoy ourselves? I've barely seen you since you returned from Vinyalondë. You aren't avoiding me, are you?”

“I would hardly call it avoidance,” she says. “It is not every century one is invited to plan and attend such a ceremony. You I can see any day. This I could see only once.”

“Quite the spectacle,” Freyr agrees.

“Look at them all. They think this is some fairy tale. They think this union brings tides of brighter times.”

Freyr's arm tightens briefly around hers. “Sigyn,” he says.

She glances at the nearby finches, assuring herself they are not the raven-spies. “It wasn't avoidance. It was _prudence_. We should not be seen together. You're far too careless.”

“Worry less, Sigyn. No one – no one at all, not a single person – is sparing a glance this way,” Freyr says immediately, soothingly. It grates on her.

“This is going too well,” Sigyn says.

“Of course it is!” Freyr says. “We have been quite thorough. We accounted for everything. You had no trouble?”

None at all. Simple to entreat Fandral to arrange an outing with Thor and his companions. Simple to drag out their wandering through the markets. Simple to lead them to that tavern and simple to slip something extra into their tall, thin glasses, all well before the Valkyries arrived. By the time they'd managed to return to Asgard, that something extra had begun doing its poisonous work and made them helpless, thick and slow, when they most needed clear heads.

And looking back, they'll know it was the drink, but they'll believe they have only themselves to blame.

The only set back was Giselric, whom she had been unable to persuade to join along, but there was plenty to keep him occupied on Asgard once the attacks began.

“They could barely stand when I saw them,” Freyr says, sounding gleeful. “What ever did our Amora give you to give them?”

“I haven't the recipe,” Sigyn replies. _You needn't Seidr to have power_ , the enchantress had murmured to her, slipping the vial into the palm of Sigyn's hand. _With this?_ She'd tapped the glass, the liquid inside bubbling and popping. _Whomever drinks it won't be able to tell the floor from the ceiling; will be susceptible to all sorts of suggestions and their mouth loosened to tell all sorts of secrets._ Sigyn has come to quite adore the enchantress's little presents.

“And you? No trouble either?” Sigyn asks, gesturing to the young prince Baldur, just as hale as his brother. Much more sullen, however. She cannot fathom what _he_ has to be upset about.

Freyr holds up his free hand, studying the small sprig he's twirling between his fingers. It smells of mistletoe. “Like you,” he says. “No trouble.”

A fortuitous thing, they'd agreed, that Baldur spends now so much time in Idunn's forests, where Freyr is already known to spend much of his own time.

“You are not the only one to whom our enchantress has been generous,” Freyr adds. “All she asked of me was a drop of Baldur's blood – easily gotten, messy work gardening is – and she gave me the most lovely plant.” He twirls the mistletoe. “It's growing _everywhere_ in the forest now. Idunn has been running the poor prince ragged to uproot it. He won't be able to, of course. It will just grow and grow and grow, and he'll be exposed to it again and again and again.”

“When will it take effect?”

Freyr grins. “Whenever we wish it to.”

“Are you sure Freyja will not interfere?” Sigyn says.

Freyr frowns. Freyr no longer prefers to speak of his sister. “She won't,” he says firmly.

As has happened at least five occasions every hour, another warrior stands and proclaims a loud toast and an oath of sworn loyalty to crown and king and queen, and hundreds of voices call out to echo. Loki accepts these oaths gracelessly, as if they are his due and it is poor form they are not already sworn. Though Sigyn is much too far away to hear, she thinks when Thor leans in to him he is admonishing Loki.

Still twirling the sprig, Freyr says, “I can see it. I can see exactly how it's going to be.” He leans closer and whispers into her ear, “We'll scatter them again. All of Asgard's forces. This first time was merely a trial run. A mere skirmish. Next time, it will be a battle. And we'll strand them again. And we'll have our people in every Asgardian city square inciting overthrow.”

Sigyn can see it already, the fruits of their many, _many_ years of labors blooming into delightful chaos. “The people will wonder where Asgard's warriors are,” she murmurs. “Where their _protectors_ are.”

“We'll say, _scattered and confused_. We'll stand up and shout – _stranded and leaderless_.”

“They'll cry out for beloved Thor, their golden son,” Sigyn says.

“Rash and thoughtless!” Freyr says. “Murdered by the treacherous beloved he himself blindly welcomed into Asgard. Always finding his own pleasure with thought of no one but himself! Killed by his own carelessness!”

“They'll cry out for the old All-Father. Sleeping for so long, now. Will he ever wake?”

“Old and weak, we'll tell them!” Freyr says. “Crushed under the heavy weight of his own tangled debts!”

“They'll be desperate. They'll cry out for Prince Baldur.”

“Betrayer! Felled by his own poison spread through the forest kept by the keeper of your ever-records. The house of Odin is rotten and broken,” Freyr continues. Sigyn can just imagine those words igniting the realms. “It is time for a _change_! Laufey of Jötunheimr once tried to heal the house of Odin! He'd offered his own son as a peace-bride, a show of good faith. And what did Odin do? He took Laufey's son and tortured him. Turned him into the creature that would eventually murder golden Thor!”

Sigyn studies Loki, wishing she were close enough to watch his long fingers tapping and stroking the rim of his goblet, eyes heavy-lidded and calculating. “Do you think he will?” she asks.

“I met him in the vaults,” Freyr says. “Mad thing, he was. Mad, mad creature. He has no love for any of the House of Odin. Laufey was clear – we need hardly do a thing. Just follow Loki's lead.”

“If you're certain,” Sigyn says. There is much she sees in Loki's expression when he looks upon Thor. She thinks Freyr's assessment quite significantly off.

“He won't disappoint. He's a _trickster_ ,” Freyr says. “If everything goes well, he'll be _your_ trickster for a time. Won't you like that?”

Always Sigyn has longed for Asgard's throne, and long has she been looking forward to sitting on it – alone. All that power and prestige hers. Neither Amora nor Freyr desire the throne itself, only to have the favor of the one who wields its power.

“Laufey won't,” she says. “He wants Odin back on the throne in the end. He'll find out our double cross.”

“It will be too late for him to have a say,” Freyr says. “Laufey does not always get what Laufey wants. He should be used to that, eh?”

She'd thought to allow Loki to sit beside her long enough to get what she and her co-conspirators needed from Laufey, and then dispose of him as the opportunity arose. She'd been assured Loki is a wide-eyed doll driven to docile madness, the perfect puppet to place on the throne and parrot whatever script he was presented with.

Now, however…

She thinks earning – and keeping – Loki's allegiance is going to be quite entertaining, indeed. And keeping _Loki_ even more entertaining yet.

“Fragile,” Freyr says. “Would you not agree? This union,” he gestures at the king and queen. At how straight-spined they sit, taller together than apart. “So terribly new and fragile.”

“Quite fragile,” Sigyn agrees.

“You think him handsome?” Freyr asks, all idle innocence.

“Very handsome.”

“Hmmm,” Freyr says, then, “Keep me informed, as I will you.” Before he departs, he tucks the sprig of mistletoe behind her ear.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Revised chapter posted August 2014.**

_Thor_

Thor concedes their sleeping arrangements with, he believes, exceptional grace.

Considering.

Considering this pretense of a strong, happy marriage had been _his_ idea, more or less, and he'd barely made it through the ceremonies; never one for subterfuge, and he'd plied Loki with mead and thrown back more than his own share just to soften the edge of Loki's toothy grin and hopefully conceal his own burgeoning panic.

Considering all he had wanted, when the celebrations ended and they'd been escorted to their chambers by torchlight, was to collapse face first onto his bed, hoping to actually sleep through the night and that, upon waking, the morning sun had burnt away his unease.

Considering that the way Loki proposes the arrangement is by throwing all of the heavy blankets and throws and pillows to a heap on the floor, crawling onto the bare bed, muttering, “If you join me I will slit your throat with a jagged blade,” and falling dead asleep.

Considering Thor is _wed to a Jötun_ , wed to not just any Jötun but to _Loki Laufeyson_ , and technically has been for ages.

He does not sleep that night, but he had not expected to.

Instead, he and his weary bones shift and fidget and brood on the marble floor, unforgiving even with the generous mound of downy blankets as buffer. He has not even the comfort of his own rooms. Would not do, he'd been assured, a king retiring to a prince's chambers. But as Thor refused to use his father's study so too he's refused to displace his mother from the royal chambers, though she'd offered and nearly insisted. Not that the palace lacks for space. In the face of his refusal, an entire wing was opened and aired out and these specific chambers newly furnished.

Well, not completely furnished yet. Just one bed, and no chairs or couches or any other alternative to sleep on.

A deliberate choice, Thor thinks, to isolate them. No need for a placeholder king, an adequately king-shaped marker that will last until the true king wakes, to be kept nearby. That is how his council treats him, how he fears he is regarded, and in the dark of night, Thor wonders if it is true. A placeholder, and not just for Odin.

Deliberate, also, for another reason. Thor had overheard a few thralls gossiping how they've heard that on new moons Jötnar turn to dragons, monstrous things with jagged wingspans, and so the farther away from others the new queen sleeps the safer. Thor expects on the next such moon someone will draw a short straw and come investigating for damage. He expects that, were the Jötun in question not his Jötun queen, he'd have volunteered to investigate himself in hope it was true and the dragon might actually prove a challenge to battle.

It is not true; Thor had asked Radulf, after overhearing the gossip and then after asking Loki, who had had to hold onto a nearby column for support he was laughing so hard – which was not, Thor had insisted to no avail, actually an answer. But Thor expects also that the knowledge that Loki can turn into such a creature – to _any_ creature – whenever he chooses would comfort those thralls no more than it comforts him.

What Thor would not give for the chaos of his own chambers. The glint and gleam of well-earned treasure, the squawking and fluttering and snapping of dozens of creatures, and the musky smell of dust gathering on his bookcases. It is sterile here, unfamiliar and remote. Quiet but for Thor's breathing, and for Loki's. He ought call for a servant and order his affects brought – ought never have conceded he sleep here at all. But Thor is besieged by too many fronts of attack. Better to concede the smaller battles, even as the notion galls him.

As the night progresses and his back begins to protest, Thor's attention is drawn again and again to Loki, curled in a tight ball, knees practically to his chin and arms tightly crossed over his chest, brow furrowed and chest barely rising. When Thor sleeps he spreads out – loose and relaxed and taking up more space than even his generous size ought be able to; he has inadvertently pushed more than one bedfellow off the edge and done so more than once. Though the bed should dwarf Loki's tightly curled form, it seems to Thor that Loki takes up just as much space.

The arrangements are just as well, then. Thor is beginning to suspect a realm is not large enough to house them both, let alone a bed.

Not that Thor _wants_ to share the bed.

Wondered what it would be like to share a bed with his ghost.

Not that he'd harbored illusions his wedding night would comprise a single one of the amicably lewd suggestions tossed their way during that torchlit march.

Blue blush is still smeared across Loki's pale cheeks. Loki had not bothered to remove his heavy jewelry or scrub clean his face. Only bothered to throw off his clothing while complaining of the heat and remove and toss away his decorative crown. Only bothered to banish Thor to the floor.

Thor is wed to a Jötun.

Thor is wed to Loki Laufeyson.

Blinded by his false memories of his false ghost, too overwhelmed by his kingly responsibilities, Thor has had scant opportunity to turn over the idea in his mind. But in the dim quiet of the predawn, the fact is plain. He is wed to a Jötun. Has single-handedly placed a Jötun on Asgard's throne. And not just any Jötun, no. But Loki Laufeyson, who has explicitly revealed ill intentions against Thor and his kin. Who seems willing pawn to Laufey's machinations. Who has managed to learn all of their secrets, and who will no doubt use them to some ill end.

And who, even now, even _knowing_ this, Thor still mistakes in his heart for the ghost who gave Thor courage and purpose. He wonders, suddenly, if this doomed inevitability, this helpless devotion, is what Fandral feels whenever Sif is near.

Though he means to keep his distance, soon enough Thor has drifted near enough to rest his elbows on the bed and his chin on his clasped hands. Loki is beautiful. Thor has always thought so. Beautiful and, as always, just beyond Thor's reach.

Thor leans a touch closer, and in a blink a thin, jagged blade forms in one of Loki's curled hands.

“Noted,” Thor says, leaning back. A wisp of green, like an owl's poisoned breath, snakes briefly around the blade as it melts back into Loki's skin. He says, “You were genuinely attempting to have me killed when you sent me to Vanaheimr, weren't you?”

Voice thick with sleep, Loki mutters without opening his eyes, “If you were bested by an _owl_ , you deserved to be.” He curls tighter and grows more still as he drifts back to sleep.

A Jötun on Asgard's throne. Thor Odinson wed to Loki Laufeyson.

By Yggdrasil what has he _done_?

Thor may in the end fulfill his rash oath purely out of self defense, because when Odin All-Father wakes – and Thor refuses to believe his father will not – he is going to _murder_ Thor.

* * *

_Loki_

Thor accepts their sleeping arrangements gracelessly.

Considering.

He pouts and sighs and shifts restlessly on his generously appointed mound of blankets and casts the bed long, mournful glances. He ought be grateful Loki allowed him to stay in the room, especially as he'd forced Loki to suffer through those endless, insipid celebrations – forced Loki to sit, stiff and straight-spined, under a thousand thousand curious and cutting and calculating stares. They had not been respectful, those stares. His _subjects_ had not been respectful.

Loki will teach them to be.

Not that Loki's magnanimity is entirely selfless. He thrills – shivers – a physical pleasure, each time he glances at the miserable form on the floor. Loki did that. Him, all by himself. Loki took bright, beautiful, strong Thor Odinson, _Thor All-Father_ , and chained him with an impossible oath, placed them both on the throne, and now that it suits Loki, relegated him to the floor. And to the floor Thor fell.

_That_ is power.

His sorcery all but pales in comparison.

If he does as Laufey-king wishes, then he will only have this power for the short time until the old All-Father wakes. Perhaps even a shorter span of time than that – there are traitors in the court that no doubt will soon make themselves known to Loki. They will want to force Loki into their own schemes, when Loki is beginning to prefer his own. A modest scheme compared to what they seem to be planning, yes, and yet a thousandfold more thrilling:

The one where he alone sees Thor subjugated, and Thor, for all his confidence, all his strength, has a face carved in keen longing and sweet despair when he looks at Loki and believes Loki is not looking back. Unaware of the veiled Loki-shade kneeling beside him, hungry for his every detail. Loki traces insubstantial fingers along the downward curve of Thor's lips. Loki will not have his fill of Thor – of his husband-king – in the time Laufey-king has allotted him. Not nearly.

If Thor were _his_ , utterly and in every way, then there would be no need to loathe him.

Yes, just a slight change in plans. The humiliation and ruination of all in Asgard _except_ Thor. And no need, really, for Odin to reclaim the throne. It suits Thor just fine. Yes, Loki will proceed as he wants – his own plan. And if it suits him, he may even bother to inform Laufey-king of the change.

But although Thor consumes his thoughts, that night Loki dreams, strangely, of the Mother – of their first and only meeting. A sudden image of her crowds his mind – she is tall, heavy-jowled and her belly bulbous with rolls of fat, draped in sharp jewels and silver chains, delicate pendants hanging from around her neck and mosaics trailing down her sleeves. Thick makeup is caked on her plump face.

_The morning Jötunheimr suns glint off her many adornments as she treks through the snow, nimble for her girth. She is a giant most certainly, but not, it would seem, of ice. Nor of fire. Something other. Loki is crouched atop Laufey-king's temple – young, so_ small _in a world meant for giants like her – and he throws stones at one of the guards below until, with a scowl and one hand rubbing his head, he looks up and snaps, “What?”_

_He would not be so rude to Helblindi, nor even to Býleistr. Would cut out his own tongue before using it to shape that tone to Fárbauti-king. Loki throws another stone at his head because Loki can and face no repercussions but the guard's deepening scowl. “Who is that?” Loki asks._

_“The Mother,” he says._

Of Monsters _, Loki will learn, after spending the day pestering the guards and servants for answers. The Mother of Monsters, who dwells in a forest that is larger on the inside than the outside. He will learn her true name, also, but when Loki wakes from this dream-memory he will be unable to recall it._

_“She has been here before?” Loki asks. She seems to know her surroundings._

_“Once,” the guard says shortly. “Before your birth.”_

_As she approaches the temple she pauses by a chained ice-dragon, and as it has been trained to do to anyone foolish enough to step so near, it opens its mouth in a snarl – but then the aggression smooths, just as swiftly, from its face and hackles._

_To Loki's amazement, it thumps to the ground and rolls to its back, tossing up a billowing of snow as it does, and gazes at her in obvious adoration. Its long, fat tongue lolls out. She pats the ridge-line of its forehead, an absent indulgence, and then she moves on as if this is not the single most incredible act of subjugation Loki has ever witnessed. Every dragon soon marks her passage with this same submission, and she proceeds as if she does not notice. Who is she? Loki must know._

_Laufey-king meets her half-way to the temple. They clasp arms, hands to elbows, and an expression unfamiliar to Loki flashes briefly on his father's face – it is a strange one. Even – Loki almost hesitates to think – a soft one. But quickly gone. The suns' reflection off the white ground causes her to glitter and shimmer such that Loki cannot discern her own expression. Fárbauti-king does not greet her in such manner – nor at all; he stays confined to his chambers during the length of her visit._

_Loki follows Laufey-king and the Mother on silent footsteps through the temple halls, ducking behind columns thrice his size around whenever they pause. They are deep within the palace, steps from the secret cavern into which Loki often schemes to sneak, when Laufey-king says, “That is enough. Leave us, Loki.”_

_Caught, Loki shuffles out from behind a column. The Mother of Monsters approaches him and lowers to one knee before him so that her lovely, plump face is close. It is absurd, but Loki wants to show her his belly. Wants to lift his chin to bare his neck._

_“Oh, there has been no harm, ice king,” she says. Her voice is a siren's song to Loki's ears. “He cannot help it. All monsters are drawn to me.” She smiles at him, and Loki, helplessly, smiles back. “Even the little ones.”_

_Laufey-king sighs, and he has that same strange look when his lips form her name, but in the dream there is no sound to accompany the movement._

_They leave him, then, and disappear into the secret cavern._

_In one month the Jötun army will strike Midgard; in two, Loki will meet a raven-spy called Muninn; and in three, Loki will be locked away and occupied by much more pressing concerns than the mystery of the giant before whom monsters bow._

* * *

_Thor_

When morning dawns, Thor studies the still-slumbering Loki and knows the brief respite the ceremonies had granted him are over. The time to second-guess himself is long past. His father taught him that his instincts were true, and if his instincts led him to strike that agreement with Loki then that was the correct course of action.

Loki will have the freedom and throne he wants, and he will be here where Thor can keep an eye on him rather than out of sight and mind where he could be up to any sort of mischief or revenge. The realm will have the united front of a strong king and queen it needs, and Thor's council will have no more reason than usual to doubt Thor's ability to rule.

And Thor?

The truth is that Ikol – that _Loki_ – makes Thor stronger. That he still has that power over Thor, despite that he is all but a stranger.

So though it will gut him every moment he is beside Loki knowing Loki does not wish to be beside him, every time he is not allowed to touch Loki as he is desperate to, knowing how unwelcome and abhorred such advances will be, every jibe Loki will no doubt murmur reminding Thor of the countless ways he has been made a fool, Thor will endure. Because while the very sight of Loki will remind Thor of his broken oath, what Loki does not know is he will also remind Thor of the lost, lonely ghost whom Thor will always hold dear in his heart and to whom Thor has always dedicated all his victories.

It had been real enough to him.

The matter is settled, and all Thor has to do now to ensure the agreement's success is lie to everyone he holds most dear.

On the bed, Loki stretches without seeming to wake, back arching. Then he turns to lie on his stomach and settles back down in a generous, snuffling sprawl.

_How did you do this to me?_ Thor wonders.

When Thor has bathed and dressed, he pauses by the chamber doors, his hands against the wood. He takes a deep breath, thinks of all his most pleasant memories of his ghost until the smile on his face feels natural, opens the doors–

And nearly crashes into Giselric, who quickly grabs hold of him and steadies them both.

“Ah – good morning, your majesty,” Giselric says.

“And to you!” Thor says, as cheerfully as he can. Giselric is visibly taken aback at his tone. “Is all well?”

“It is,” Giselric says, though he draws out the words enough to suggest he means the opposite. “I have been wondering, your majesty, if this is far enough into the future that you will heed my advice?”

“Come now, you must be jesting!” Thor says. “The morning after my wedding night? Far too soon for you to dampen my spirits, my friend!”

Giselric blinks at him, long and slow, and Thor sees him glance into the chambers. Sees him note Loki slumbering on the bed in a naked sprawl and the pillows and blankets thrown carelessly about and draw the wrong conclusion. “All is well?” Giselric asks, mouth slightly agape.

“Did you not one moment past tell me it was?”

“I – yes,” Giselric eventually says. He seems to gather himself and says, “It is merely – given your – history, and the tension between you since Jötunheimr, I – this is…unexpected.”

“The days since then have been a shock to all of us,” Thor says. “And with the chaos of all the arrangements, Loki and I had barely a moment to ourselves. But we have reconciled our differences and the misunderstandings between us and had a joyous night!”

“So Loki does not…?”

“Yes?” Thor prompts, when Giselric seems unable to continue.

“Does not want…revenge. Against,” Giselric's voice drops, “Your father?”

“We have settled that misunderstanding,” Thor says. He knows an edge has crept into his voice. He needs to change the subject before it grows any sharper. Lying like this is exhausting; he cannot fathom how people like Loki manage to do it _all the time_. “While you are here, there is a matter I would discuss with you.”

“Of course,” Giselric says at once.

Thor had spent a good part of his restless night considering how Loki might immediately set to taking advantage of his new status – for all that Loki Laufeyson is a stranger, the answers came swiftly to mind – and what countermeasures he can arrange. He steps forward and closes the chamber doors behind them, not wanting to risk Loki hearing even a single word of this. “Loki does not know many people here. And I worry that not everyone is understanding of his heritage. I would have you as his official guard.”

Thor watches Giselric not say a great deal of things. Then Giselric says, “I am honored, your majesty. I will not betray your trust.”

“And as such – I admit, Loki and I did have a handful of – disagreements,” Thor says. “But for his safety, I must insist on a few precautions that he may take issue with.”

“Of course,” Giselric says again, and he listens impassively as Thor imparts his instructions. Whatever Giselric thinks of them, he keeps to himself. Giselric was always going to be the toughest one to convince; if Loki keeps to his bargain, though, that should go a long way towards dispelling his doubts.

As soon as Giselric is out of sight and off to accomplish his appointed tasks, Thor takes a moment to slump back against the wall and let out a long sigh. However people manage to lie all the time, Thor had better learn quickly. He takes a deep, fortifying breath, straightens, and heads out in search of the rest of his companions.

He waves off the council members seeking to waylay him, the messengers with armfuls of missives, and the courtiers armed with congratulations and sly inquires as to how well his night found him, although he makes sure to keep a pleasant smile on his face. Thor eventually finds Sif and Fandral circling one another in one of the practice rings, wooden swords poised and their boots trailing intricate designs in the sand. Other warriors practice their own mock battles around them, and a handful of young trainees are gathered in a loose circle to watch them, but Sif and Fandral take little notice of any but themselves.

Each time their weapons lock and their flushed faces are close, they murmur to one another, expressions serious, though Thor is too far away to hear the exchanges. For all that they are in the open and surrounded by crowds of fellow warriors, the moment is private. And Thor is loath to intrude. Yet he watches – he does not have time to watch their graceful fight for as long as he does.

If all of ruling were that dance – the honesty of it, the thrilling give and take, the weight of a weapon, the surety of whether a match ended in your victory or defeat, no messy middle ground with which to contend – Thor would have no equal. But it is not. It is _politics_ , and though one could not suffer without some skill to show for it the endless _decades_ of training since childhood Thor has unwillingly undergone, still it leaves a foul taste in his mouth.

The coronation ceremony was for nothing if Thor cannot uncover what treason led to Asgard's infiltration and his father's sleep and bring those responsible to justice. And the wedding ceremony was for nothing if Thor cannot convince the realms that Asgard's monarchy is stable and succession secure. And the answer will not be found, sadly, with a weapon in his hand. With _honesty_.

Thor can almost feel the moment his presence registers, even though Sif and Fandral continue to circle and feint and clash under the overcast sky, neither with an upper hand. Volstagg, who'd been lingering outside the rings, joins him in watching. He has an oversized ax nearly his own width over one shoulder and says as greeting, “Look at them, my king, showing off with wooden toys.” He swings the ax down to lean on and leans conspiratorially close. “We ought give them a fright, eh?”

It hits Thor in the stomach how much he needs them as cleanly as if Volstagg swung the ax into him instead of the ground. It hits him equally how much he _cannot_ rely on them.

He remembers Fandral and Volstagg with their heads together at the dinner table, while Thor was forced to sit at the royal table far away from them and could only watch. He remembers being the last to know when Fandral let go his Seidr for Sif. He remembers it was Fandral who started the wager on the Jötun in the weapons vault, and all of them who participated, but when Thor said it was to stop there was no disputing him.

He remembers Sif in the weapons vault, only a short time ago, and how she'd said, “My king, I was addressing _you_.”

His father is right. _Loki_ is right. Thor is a king, and more often than not, that means bearing your burdens alone.

“We ought to, indeed,” Thor says. “But first I have need of assistance.”

“Anything,” Volstagg says.

Thor keeps his voice to a murmur, though the clash and clang of weapons, the grunts and groans of exertion, should be cover enough. “You know something of the history between myself and Ik – and Loki. So you must realize that what happened on Jötunheimr, what I swore on Jötunheimr – it was a misunderstanding.”

”Is this so,” Volstagg says – mildly, and without judgment.

”The misunderstanding has been resolved between the two of us, and Loki does not hold me to that oath,” Thor says, though he suspects Loki will hold it _over_ him until the end of time itself. “But all ears now have heard I swore it. I cannot change that they heard an oath–”

“But you can change the oath they heard,” Volstagg says musingly. “Allow me to ask, is it not my favor you would command, but Brihtwyn's?”

“Brihtwyn's,” Thor answers, even though he despises using her in this manner. But her word is truth in a way court gossip cannot equal. “The truth of my oath _cannot_ be known.”

Volstagg scratches at his generous beard. He says, “Another question, if I may?” At Thor's nod, Volstagg says, “I cannot pretend to understand what is between you and Loki, but I would understand one thing: Does he make your majesty happy?”

“Yes,” Thor says, and it is easier than it should be to say so without a trace of doubt.

Volstagg says, “Then I will tell my Brihtwyn that never – save for her and I, of course – have I known two creatures more in love. And that your union ought herald a thousand thousand years of peace and prosperity, not merely between Asgard and Jötunheimr, but _all_ realms. That should any doubt it, they are a fool of the highest order, such that should any one question that or seek to start troubling rumors about old oaths, they would be laughed out of Asgard itself.”

Of the hundreds of knots in Thor's stomach, one, at least, uncoils. “All that?” he says, grinning half in relief and half in helpless affection for one of his truest friends.

“Well, I embellish in your majesty's presence. Add more of a lofty air to it. But the intent, I assure you, will be equal.”

Volstagg is no more built for deceit than Thor. He knows what it will cost Volstagg to bend the truth to Brihtwyn. But Thor needs time – time to uncover the realm's traitors, time to adjust to his kingly responsibilities, time to discover just how his father came to fall unexpectedly, and if the fall cannot be undone, then time to begin teaching Baldur the secret lessons their father taught Thor. Time, even – and Thor is a fool, he knows – but perhaps time to make the lies between Loki and himself into truth.

Seeing the murderous expression on Loki's face as he approaches Thor, Giselric trailing a few paces behind him, Thor concedes that that last hope may be a reach. Loki halts before Thor, a sharp, angry smile on his face. Once more in Jötun form, he's traded his wedding fare for simpler garments. Giselric stops beside Volstagg and nods respectfully to Thor.

“Husband,” Loki says, tone surprisingly pleasant given that the squint in his eyes suggests he may be attempting to kill Thor with his mind. “A word?” Without waiting for response, he says, “You may be interested to know the Casket of Ancient Winters is missing.” He gestures as he speaks, Thor just notices. Ikol always did that – gesturing constantly, unconscious miming, and Thor often paid more attention to the graceful sweeps of his hands than his words. Thor thinks of paper-birds fluttering in his cupped hands.

If Thor is not careful, he thinks there will be nothing to remind him that Ikol and Loki are not same person.

“You went to the vault?” Thor says, dragging back his attention. Thor would have thought that nothing in all the realms could persuade Loki to ever again descend those marble steps

Loki's smile turns even more frozen. “I have servants now to do such mundane tasks. The Casket's absence from its pedestal was merely reported to me.”

Thor says, “Ah. Well, you ought not be concerned. I was aware.”

“Were you,” Loki says. Perhaps it is the increasingly overcast day, but his breath is visible on each exhale.

“Given Asgard's revealed…vulnerabilities, I thought it best to better protect our more dangerous treasures. I had it secured. A precaution, only,” Thor says.

“From enemies, of course,” Loki says. He splays the long fingers of one hand against his chest. “But _I_ am no enemy. Where is it?”

“I would prefer if it remains where it is,” Thor says. Volstagg is glancing between them, fingers tapping at his ax. Giselric whispers something to him that makes Volstagg double-take.

“I am _Jötun_ ,” Loki says, as if anyone could fail to notice the horns on his head. “I am not built for this heat. I merely wish to harness the Casket to make certain parts of the palace more pleasant for me. Not such a wicked request, is it?”

“Very innocent,” Thor agrees. “I only fear that not everyone is as…pure intentioned as you. Perhaps you should change to a form that finds this temperature less unpleasant?”

Loki flinches back as if Thor slapped him. “Your advice is noted,” he says, voice tight with inexplicable anger. He whirls around and leaves in a poorly concealed huff, Giselric trailing behind him.

Watching him leave, knowing he will be back as soon as he discovers the other measures Thor ordered Giselric to take, Thor says – distantly, as if he hears himself from far away, and without quite knowing the question he wants answered, “Volstagg. When you knew. What did you feel?”

“Knew, Thor?”

“That you were in love with Brihtwyn. How did you feel?”

“Stabbed in the gut,” Volstagg says, fingers still tapping at his ax.

“It hurt?”

“To know that all is different? That you will never again be content with only your own company? That you will always _want_? It hurt terribly, my king. I fought it, even if after I could not say why I did. But that is how they say these things are. But the pain lasts only a moment, does it not? Then it is healed and the wound as if it never were, replaced by a haleness I'd before thought impossible.”

“So you do not regret it? The loss of your Seidr, I mean?”

Volstagg appears mystified. “What is there to regret?” he asks. He does not ask Thor in return what he felt. He would have asked Fandral. He would have asked Sif or Giselric.

Volstagg thumps Thor good-naturedly on the back. “What is all this? You are too somber for a man fresh from his wedding bed, eh? But do not worry. I have just the cure.” He raises his ax aloft and, with a bellow that ought be audible in Midgard, charges at Sif and Fandral.

Their expressions are still comforting Thor that afternoon as he is forced to reside over countless, endless meetings. News from the realms seems to have cooled and tempers abated, though they are still tracing with little success the false reports that scattered Asgard's forces the day the All-Father fell. Beyond that, there are growing rumors of unrest. It must be found and quickly dealt with, his council urge. Unrest does not simply disperse on its own – if not thoroughly dealt with, it hides until strong enough to once more show, and in the meantime spreads and entrenches insidious roots of discord. A stable monarchy abates, but it does not eradicate.

Dructuin has cornered him, blathering over some mundane trading dispute in Nidavellir while the rest of the council continue arguing over possible traitors, when Loki sweeps into the throne room and says, over-bright, “Husband? A word?”

Halting Dructuin mid-word – and frankly not minding a whit Dructuin's obvious disgruntlement, something of the man grates on him – Thor gestures for Loki to accompany him to an antechamber. His council make no effort to conceal how they speak lower and drift closer, endeavoring to overhear. Giselric, he notes, is stationed by the hall's doors. Good.

Loki says, “Baldur's rooms are spelled. They repel any from crossing his threshold. Some ward. A strong one. No other room is so guarded.”

“Baldur has always been over-cautious of his possessions.” With fair reason. Most are rather valuable and do not, on the whole, actually belong to him. “Whenever he is away for any length of time he takes extra precaution. Strengthens them.” Though they are always there. Even Thor cannot pass. Loki does not seem to have expected them – so the wards must not be strong enough to halt a ghost.

“Away?”

“Ah, yes. Baldur has felt rather underfoot as of late. And he has yet to come to terms with our father's sleep. I suggested that Branthoc take him for training exercises on Nidavellir.” Granted, he had told Giselric to make it clear that this was less suggestion and more strict order, and Thor is not going to hear the end of it when Baldur returns. But Branthoc should keep him there for months, at least.

“Of course,” Loki mutters. “Underfoot. And neither that nor the ward has anything to do with me?”

“I know not why you think it would,” Thor says. “Why do you seek him?”

“I thought I might clear up any…” He rubs a finger along his nose. “Misunderstandings.” Loki glances at the council members, drifting closer and watching with blatant, keen interest. He says abruptly, “You are terrible at this. You barely made it through the ceremonies. Why is it when you could not touch me you could not stop attempting to, and now that you can and ought to you cannot bring yourself to?”

Thor's arms, he realizes, are firmly at his side. “Perhaps I no longer wish to,” Thor says, which is a lie. _Completely._ And based on Loki's raised eyebrows, an unconvincing one.

“If you wish me to be your dutiful queen in public, you could at least attempt to cooperate. Or there is a quite simple alternative. We forego this farce; fulfill your oath, and I shall be gone.”

Yes, _simple_. Turning against his own father – currently vulnerable. Besides, Loki wants more than revenge; he wants power. Thor doubts he'll relinquish one just because he has the other. “I think not,” Thor says.

“Then – here. While those worms you call advisers watch, wrap your hand in your cape and press it to my cheek,” Loki instructs. Loki only huffs when he does, and Thor realizes he has instinctively left a hairsbreadth of space between his wrapped hand and Loki's cheek. He closes the scant distance. Loki's cheek fits neatly into his palm.

_Perfectly._

Thor hates, almost, how perfectly. Loki kisses the fingers of one hand and presses them to Thor's chest. He leans in close – so close the biting cold of his cheek stings Thor's own – and murmurs, “You are and have always been _mine_ , Odinson. I am allowing you, for your own purposes, to pretend the reverse is true. It does you no favors to refuse my generosity.”

And with that he once more sweeps out, Giselric trailing behind him, and Thor struggles to pay mind as Dructuin immediately resumes arguing for a new trade route as if the interruption were only in Thor's mind.

Loki is late to the evening feast and offers no explanation. After he arrives, he orders a plate of raw fish brought to him, pushing away the fine turkey leg with his lip curled in disgust. Once he's swallowed half the plate's contents whole, skeleton and all, he murmurs, “Husband? A word?”

“Any word you would like,” Thor says, aware of how many people around them – including his mother – are listening to every word.

“The gatekeeper informed me I am forbidden passage by the Bifröst.” He digs a fingernail between two teeth and pulls out a thin bone, which he flicks away. “On your order.”

Thor says, “Ah. Yes. You must forgive me. I have only just found you. I could not _bear_ contemplating you being any where but at my side. Not so soon.”

“How sweet,” Loki says, smile sharp, and that evening, Thor is not the least bit surprised to find himself once more relegated to the floor.

* * *

_Loki_

The disquiet the dream leaves in its wake, the feeling that Loki is forgetting something important that he would remember if he could but recall the Mother's name, follows him and frustrates him during what develops into a most frustrating day.

Whatever of himself Loki had revealed to Thor during their childhood evenings – and it could be anything, truthfully, given that half the time Loki had been unable to remember whether his name was pronounced forward or backward – must've been more than enough. And Thor must've kept more to himself than Loki realizes, that Thor is capable of this cunning. Thor anticipates and thwarts him in every way – the Casket of Ancient Winters hidden, Baldur sent out of reach, and the Bifröst closed to him.

Loki has naught to show for himself at day's end but a persistent and Hogun-shaped shadow.

“This is how it is to be?” he asks when Hogun refuses to be sent away.

“I am no more thrilled than you.”

“I spoke truth to Thor,” Loki says. Well, he spoke half-true, which is by half close enough. “My purpose is innocent. So there is no need for your scrutiny. Be elsewhere.”

Hogun – and it has not taken a day to remind Loki how tiresome and tedious Hogun's company is – remains unimpressed and unconvinced. “I am not thrilled, but I am loyal. If my king believes you need be watched – and I have reason of my own to think he has good cause – I will not take my eyes from you.”

“I am pleasant to watch,” Loki will grant him. “So I blame not your eagerness. And perhaps you can be of use – you should see that this palace is emptied of its mirrors. If I unawares am faced with my reflection, I will be…cross.” He recalls keenly the white rage that took him on seeing a mirror in Laufey-king's temple. And Hogun already knows this weakness of his, and more importantly, Loki knows _Hogun's_ , so there is no risk in admitting to it. He studies the golden elegance of the halls around them. “This is now my home. I would hate to be forced to turn it to rubble. To turn those _inside_ it to dust. Now that you have this task, know it will be your fault if I do.”

Hogun grumbles, but like all good shadows, he follows at Loki's heels.

But the day's frustration linger. He hadn't even set out for anything overly wicked. For now, at least, his purposes truly had been innocent. He wants the Casket merely to once, just once, place his fingers against that power, which Laufey-king kept ever out of his reach. He wants to search Baldur's chambers, for he _knows_ the brat kept one of his drawings despite his insistence that he always burned them. And he'd no plans to leave Asgard, not yet, merely wants to hold and covet the knowledge that he _can_ leave – that he has around him no walls. Except he cannot leave, and in every way he is thwarted.

That evening, Loki sees that their chambers have been lined with heavy chairs and enormous plush couches.

Loki destroys them, one by one by one. Thor should count himself lucky that Loki does not confiscate the blankets, too, and make him sleep on stone.

For the most part Thor avoids him, and for the moment, Loki allows him to. It disturbs him to realize how easily Thor anticipated him and cornered him. It makes them uneven, and if there is to be unbalance between them it should be in Loki's favor.

And it disturbs him, also, how _large_ this palace is. He cannot fathom how large the realm outside it must be. Too long in a cage, and even on Jötunheimr all directions are the same barren, snowy blue, making it seem as if at all times one could see the entire realm. Not so here, where forests and cities extend outwards in endless sprawls. Trapped, Loki's world became small and focused. Now free, more or less, he must relearn to expand his sight.

So as the days pass he learns, as he can, that which has passed him by – pours through the libraries for what history he has missed and what knowledge the mirror-cage failed to provide, listens to conversations between lords and ladies, thralls and masters, among the guards and warriors, and observes how Asgardian life fits together. But even now that he can approach them tangibly, he keeps distance between them. To Loki, they are good for information and little else.

If Asgardians stare at him and whisper behind his back, Loki does not particularly care. They are worms, all of them, ever-present and underfoot and irrelevant. Distant spires and towers in the backdrop to Loki's affairs. Some days he thinks to accumulate this knowledge merely to sate his own curiosity. Some days he thinks, _The better to tear you apart with._ And always with his Hogun-shaped shadow close, no doubt marking his movements and reporting them.

Sometimes Loki sees Freyr in the halls, and each time the man only nods to him respectfully and passes him without a word.

When Loki is beginning to wonder if Freyr never means to approach him, a different traitor makes herself known to him. The fair Sigyn smiles demurely and bows her head when she introduces herself. She does not need to – Loki knows precisely who she is. “Your majesty,” she says. “I – forgive my presumption – but I notice you walk these halls alone. Might I offer myself as attendant? I could be of any service to you that you require.”

“It is true I have no attendants,” Loki says. He smooths a curl of her hair behind one ear – she does not flinch, even though the cold of his hand must sting. “You're blushing,” he says, though she is not particularly; at most her breath caught, just barely, at his touch. “Do you make such an offer because you think I'm handsome?” He puts deliberate emphasis on the word.

Her eyes widen, but he keeps his expression bland as he watches her force herself to relax. “I do,” she says, with impressively feigned embarrassment. “Very much so.” But some of the breathy subservience is gone from her voice and replaced with a hint of wariness.

Lest he too quickly reveal his hand, Loki says, “As I understand it, as my attendant you _have_ to say such, though. I cannot trust your compliments, but I do like them.”

“Then it will be my responsibility to shower you with them until you believe my sincerity.”

Loki places a hand at the small of her back, urging her to walk beside him. “Well, my lovely new attendant. Give me a proper tour of my home. That one,” he nods his head at Hogun, trailing them, “has been useless. A spotted charr would be better company. When I first arrived, I asked him for a tour, and he held out his arms and said, 'This is the palace.'”

“My queen, I can do so much better, I assure you,” she says. She drops her voice to a whisper, but he thinks a whisper that purposefully carries. “You must've suffered with only him around. To be honest, if you had not pointed to Giselric I would not have even noticed him.” They laugh, and he thinks she adds the same purposefully mocking undertone as him. When Loki turns to look over his shoulder and grin, he says, “Oh dear, I think Ho – Giselric is unamused. But with him, how could one tell?”

Between Hogun's scowl burning Loki's back and Sigyn's sharp smile shining beside him, Loki is beginning to feel quite at home.

After some weeks glutting himself with knowledge, spying on his subjects and spending long enjoyable afternoons in Sigyn's company, Thor's steadfast avoidance begins to bother. Loki is _queen_ , and while he may not actually be Thor's _beloved_ as proclaimed, Thor nevertheless has betrayed fondness for his company even with the knowledge that Ikol was never anything but a ghost.

How can Loki be so easily swept aside? How can Thor not mind that they do not share a bed, share their day, share barely more than a handful of words each evening? Every day, every hour, every wretched second Loki vacillates between whether he ought return to Laufey-king's plan or else keep furthering his own. Can Thor not realize that he is all that stands between Loki and Laufey-king's machinations – does he think there is so much time between now and that future day, when there is so little?

Determined to discover just what is so much more important to Thor than appeasing and entertaining his queen, who grows each day dangerously less appeased and less entertained, one day Loki begins quietly following Thor as Hogun in turn follows him. They come to a staircase Loki has never before seen, which leads to a door that melts away once Thor is through. “Shadow,” Loki says. “What is beyond this wall?”

“I know not,” Hogun says. “That is for the All-Father alone to know.”

Loki feels along the wall, both with fingers and sorcery; to the former the wall is rough and solid, and to the latter blank and impenetrable. “You are useless,” Loki reminds him. “Never have I met a man so devoid of curiosity.”

“You are not the first to say so,” Hogun says. “I will tell you what I tell everyone: I prefer to let the curious go before me. In that way I can see what kills them, and avoid such fate.”

Loki snorts, and then he almost falls flat on his face, as between breaths the wall turns just insubstantial enough to allow him through. It is an effort not to gasp on what he finds on the other side. This chamber hums with ancient, intoxicating power – pulsates and overflows with it such that it is almost a visible entity curling around the tall ceiling and crawling down the walls, twisting around the tower's piles of scrolls and strange objects and coming to tap, lazily, at his feet. It seeps into Loki's pores and consumes, much as the power in the cavern deep in the belly of Laufey-king's temple had.

“This,” Loki says, when he finds his voice, “was on no map.”

Naughty Thor, keeping secrets. That is for Loki to do.

* * *

_Thor_

In the ensuing weeks, Loki is scarce – but then, so is Thor. Not unexpected. Thor remembers how often the evening feasts were the first time his mother and father would see one another all day. They had each of them responsibilities, and rarely did they intersect. So too it already is with he and Loki; it helps, Thor supposes, that neither of them is quite making an effort to cross paths.

Thor finds him already curled up, asleep, when he retires each evening, and still asleep when Thor rises and leaves each morning, and Giselric reports that there is nothing remarkable about the time in between. During the day Loki explores parts of the palace, spends long hours in the library, pointedly ignores his mother and council members' attempts at conversation, and seems to have struck up a few unexpected friendships – including with Sigyn, much, Giselric reports, to Fandral's profound displeasure.

No actions that Thor can pinpoint as overtly nefarious, though. Loki visits not his father's chamber nor ventures much outside the palace. Thor sees him at the dining table, but their conversations are short and superficial. Thor gives up ordering more furniture brought into their chambers, as there are only so many ways he can explain away their mysterious and immediate destruction without raising too many eyebrows, but even that is petty mischief on Loki's part at best.

Overall, Loki… _behaves_.

Which is what Thor _wants_.

What they'd agreed upon.

But thankfully Thor is much too swamped to dwell excessively on exactly how alarming that nevertheless is.

There are a king's usual responsibilities – mostly mundane, for all that there is unrest underfoot. Hearing disputes. Meeting and corresponding with dignitaries and ambassadors. Negotiating boundaries and trade routes and alliances. That is what a king does. But, as his father had only just begun teaching him in earnest before his unexpected sleep, an All-Father is not just a king.

When Thor heads up that staircase to the secret tower, it is the first time he has done so without his father leading the way. He has postponed this duty long enough. His father would be aghast he left it unseen to for as long as he has.

Inside, his palms itch with the reek of old Seidr. Every corner whispers and murmurs for his attention. He soon spends too many hours here, attempting to sort through the stacks, make sense of the chaos and find order, and read through the scrolls that are now plain text to him, even if half the time he knows not quite what to do with them. So many lessons here, and yet Thor feels so unprepared; he cannot help but feel his father dwelled too much on the theory and too little on the practicalities.

He brings plates of food and his regular missives in here, too, if only to work without his council and court breathing over his shoulder. It is almost a relief having a place where no one else can enter, even if it is lonely. Even if the loneliness exhausts him.

One day he is in the tower and seated at the large wooden table, made from one unbroken piece of oak and finished to a deep red, his endless correspondence and reports surrounding him in stacks. He is not exactly surprised when the hidden entranceway – which ought open for _no one_ but Asgard's king – opens to Loki. More some discomforting, complicated mix of relief and resignation and unwilling, exasperated fondness.

Loki steps inside, surveying the tower as the entranceway melts shut behind him. “This,” he says, “was on no map.”

“With good reason,” Thor says. “Do not touch anything.”

Loki's expression is nearly pitying. He circles the tower once, frowning at the scrolls. “What language is this?”

“An old one,” is all Thor will say.

Loki ends up at Thor's table, sweeps half of it clear – scattering papers and spilling ink jars – and lounges across it with one arm behind his head and the other across his belly, his horns curved over the table's edge. He is agreeable enough when Thor requests he move his foot that's atop papers Thor needs, or to hand over a book out of Thor's reach, though he occasionally wipes a hand across his blue forehead and flicks his sweat at Thor's face.

“Stop,” Thor says, eventually, in what he believes is a reasonable tone. Considering.

“Very well. Tell me where you have hidden the Casket.”

“Has it not occurred to you that if I wished you to have it, I would not have moved it?” Loki snatches the paper Thor is currently signing so that thick ink smears from the unfinished letters, glances at it, crumples it, and throws it carelessly away.

Loki says, “I wonder. Has it not occurred to _you_ that I _will_ find it, eventually. You are being unreasonable. You already know all of my intentions. What harm could I reasonably create without risking my rule?”

“I will not concede this,” Thor says.

“I do not see why,” Loki says. “As you've already conceded all else to me.”

Thor's pen snaps in half in his hand.

Loki smirks – shifts, heedless of how the movement knocks over another pile of papers. “And this is a reasonable concession, even,” he says. “I told you my purpose for the Casket. What could your objection possibly be?”

“If you truly have such innocent purpose, if _all_ you wish of the Casket is the relief of cold, why not just change form? Is that not simpler?”

“I will not,” Loki says. “I will not until I have the Casket. I should not _have_ to change.”

Not knowing what that could _matter_ to a shapeshifter, Thor says, “This is a poor battle to pick. No one suffers for your stubbornness but you.”

Loki flicks more sweat onto Thor's papers, and they both watch the stains seep into the papers and smear the ink to unintelligible smudges. Loki says, “I would not say I will be without company.”

“Have you no where else to _be_?” Thor asks. Not that in some self-destructive corner of himself he does not want Loki near, does not thrill to have company. He cannot have anyone, most of all Loki, discovering this tower's purpose.

“Many places,” Loki says. “Or I would, if you had not forbidden the gatekeeper from opening the Bifröst to me.”

“What of in Asgard? In the entire realm there is nothing to occupy you?”

“Nothing,” Loki says, petulant – mood as mercurial as ever. He snags a branch of grapes from the plate of food beside Thor and begins to alternate eating one and chucking one at Thor's forehead. Fine. Let Loki stay. He will grow suspicious if Thor is too desperate in his attempt to force him away. Let Loki have his little tantrum. Thor will not be goaded into argument, will not give to Loki's demands. Thor can hold his temper.

Really.

Another grape hits his forehead. Thor forces himself to take another missive and read through it, even as the words blur and pass without meaning through his mind. As long as Loki is here, Thor should make Loki read these for him and summarize the important bits. That is how it used to be, sometimes, when it was his turn to read and Thor simply let the cadence of Loki's voice wash over him. Loki would soundlessly snap intangible fingers in front of Thor's face when they'd reach a passage he thought might interest Thor.

He almost does not realize Loki is snapping his fingers for Thor's attention right now. “At the least I demand you call off your spy,” Loki says.

“Giselric is not spying on you,” Thor says. “He is _guarding_ you.” And that Giselric can keep account of Loki's every move is but serendipity.

“ _Guarding_ me,” Loki repeats. His lips twist. “From what, pray tell?”

Old resentments and distrusts are not easily quelled – not even by lavish, joyful ceremonies. And with Loki refusing to wear any but his Jötun form…a Jötun on Asgard's throne, even if that Jötun is Thor's beloved. It has begun to register, Brihtwyn has confided to Volstagg, who confided to Thor. People talk. People wonder.

“Asgard's rulers have always had enemies,” Thor says, opting for the simplest explanation. “I worry for your safety.”

“And you believe I _require_ a guardian? That I am incapable of defending myself?”

“Are you?” Thor asks, honestly curious. What training could Loki have had, locked away almost his whole life in that cage? From what Thor has seen of his Seidr, Loki's skill seems to lie with illusions and tricks. And from what Thor _knows_ of Seidr, the longer Loki holds onto it, the more volatile and twisted it will become. Hardly a reliable battle companion.

Loki throws the remaining grapes, stem and all, at Thor's face. “I was not even referring to Giselric,” he snaps. “His company amuses. I meant your _spy_.” He gestures to the tower's fireplace – Muninn, Thor just notices, is perched on the mantel.

“He is not my spy,” Thor says, thinking that the tower's ability to keep out any creatures but Asgard's king is fairly abysmal. “He is my father's. He listens not to me. If he follows you, then perhaps _your_ company amuses _him_.”

Thor has only forced his attention back to his correspondence for a split second when there is a series of loud thunks followed by frantic flapping. He looks up to see three ice daggers embedded in the wall over the mantel and Muninn displaced to a nearby bookcase.

“Traitor,” Loki mutters. “Won't always be quick enough.” Then he settles back down onto the table, overturning another jar of ink. The ink spirals across the wood, soaking into the papers in its path.

“And what personal grievance have you with _Muninn_?” Thor asks.

“That is not your concern,” Loki says. “It will not listen to me, I know, but have you attempted command? He is a resource, deceitful as he is. You ought stop wasting my patience and Muninn's abilities and send it after, say…” He conjures another dagger, balancing it on a fingertip. “Baldur.”

“Why would I spy on _Baldur_?” Thor asks, not pleased that his brother is on Loki's mind. Is Nidavellir not far enough?

“Forever getting into mischief, that one,” Loki says. “And so far away from the protection of home? One shudders at the possibilities.”

Muninn caws loudly, and Loki slings the dagger its way. The dagger embeds in the wall, shuddering, though it quickly begins melting along with the others by the fire's heat. “What did you do to him?” Thor asks. This is only one of far too many questions Thor has been avoiding for far too long already.

“I sang to him lullabies,” Loki says. Thor stares. “Why, what awful horrors had you assumed? I kept a child company with song. If anything, you ought lecture _him_ for how terribly he often treated me. _Tortured_ me, despite any pleas for mercy.”

“You did more than sing to him,” Thor says. Lullabies do not explain the thievery. The Jötun battle cries. Do not _begin_ to explain the dark Seidr that licked the blade that sliced through Sif's hair – for which Baldur, to this day, has not apologized.

“Of course there is more. I thought I would do us both favor and confess to the worst.”

“Lullabies is the worst you did to him?”

“By far.” Loki traces a finger through some spilled ink, freezing it into sharp patterns. “I made him believe I am kind. Is that not also the worst that I did to you?”

Thor, after a heartbeat's pause, silently returns to his work, and Loki, after a heartbeat further, returns to sulking.

Loki returns, again and again, after that – sometimes already waiting for him by the entrance, which thankfully does not seem to permit him without Thor. Though, Giselric reports, not for lack of effort on Loki's part. Giselric continues to not inquire as to what is through the door at the stairway's top, nor do anything but stand post outside, while Loki is inside making himself a nuisance – dislodging papers and throwing scraps of food, demanding Thor lift Heimdall's orders or return to him the Casket, and conjuring paper-birds to circle the tower when Thor bores him.

And when he leaves, disappointed, Thor thinks the disappointment is not that Thor remained resolute against him but that Thor's temper did not break.

Sooner than Thor would like, though, his patience grows thin – he cannot ignore Loki, cannot trust him, and cannot with any conviction cast him away nor drag him closer. Desperate for an escape, he takes leave of all his appointments for an afternoon and heads, alone, for Utgarda's challenge fields.

He leaves behind Mjölnir, and although he has only know the strength of the hammer for a short time he already misses its comforting weight on his belt. But he hasn't much choice. The hammer is still on the floor of his chambers, where he'd tossed it aside the day he brought Loki back from Jötunheimr. The day they struck a deal, and Thor swore an oath and broke it before that day was through. The day he resolved to live a lie.

Thor has not been capable of lifting Mjölnir since.


End file.
